


Kaleidoscope

by Vendelin



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shop, Artist!Derek, Barista!Stiles, Fatal Illness, M/M, No Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-11
Updated: 2013-04-03
Packaged: 2017-11-28 23:44:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 54,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/680224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vendelin/pseuds/Vendelin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles spends a year before college working at the all-night coffee shop in town. It's nice and quiet, until one dark and brooding Derek starts coming in every morning, ordering coffee so strong that it should not be fit for human consumption. Ever. Stiles tries not to be affected by the mystery guy, but it's not like anything else happens around here, so really, what did you expect? And when he's already in too deep, he realises he might even be in way over his head...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vinterdrog](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vinterdrog/gifts).
  * Translation into Italiano available: [Kaleidoscope](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2332820) by [EsseandBi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EsseandBi/pseuds/EsseandBi)
  * Translation into Русский available: [Калейдоскоп](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5033977) by [ElasticLove](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElasticLove/pseuds/ElasticLove)



> This is my first Sterek fic. It was originally my NaNoWriMo-project, but now it's finally finished.  
> I'd like to thank the people on tumblr for helping me out with the dates for college applications, college acceptance letters, etc. You've been truly awesome, guys! 
> 
> I would also like to thank my betas [labratintraining](http://labratintraining.tumblr.com) and [avengingmidgard](http://avengingmidgard.tumblr.com) (both on tumblr. Sorry guys I forgot your AO3-names) for all the help with grammar, spelling and the English language over all. You are wonderful people and I would've never been able to post this without you.
> 
> A special thanks to my BFF vinterdrog for the never ending support, for helping me when I was stuck and was ready to give up everything. ILY <3

 

 

Cover by the ever wonderful [foreverblue-navy](http://foreverblue-navy.tumblr.com).

Please [reblog the original post](http://foreverblue-navy.tumblr.com/post/54754127479/kaleidoscope-vendelin) and _do not_ repost the cover

 

 

 

_Give me love or hate_   
_You can bend me 'til I break_   
_Give me fire, give me rain,_   
_I want joy with my pain_   
_I want your fears, your hopes,_   
_The whole kaleidoscope_   
_Kaleidoscope – The Script_

 

 

Stiles thinks it's way too early to be awake at this hour. It's _definitely_ too early to be working. The sun has barely even risen, and he's already been lifting chairs from the tables and preparing the machines for almost forty-five minutes. He had thought working would be a good idea to get accustomed to the idea of college and leaving his dad alone, but he's already wondering how he's going to survive a year of serving coffee to rude costumers with a smile. 

It's summer and Stiles envies Scott and Allison who can spend their days at the beach, just because Scott's boss lets him work whenever he wants to. Stiles' boss makes sure that he's working _all the time_. 

 _Coffee Berry and sons_ could have been a funny name for a café, with the link to coffee berries that coffee beans come in – something Stiles only knows because he has Googled this – if it wasn't for the fact that Mr. Berry himself thinks that it's the most awesome name a coffee shop could ever have. Because of that, Stiles has no other choice than to hate it. Also, Mr. Berry doesn't have any sons, so it makes even less sense. 

The bell over the door tinkles and Stiles looks up from where he stands, wiping tables with a cloth. He's only been working for two weeks, but he already recognizes a lot of the regulars. This guy isn't one of them, and Stiles _knows_ , because he would remember that face. Also, no one except for drivers get their coffee at this hour. This guy doesn't look like he has a truck full of groceries waiting outside, and Stiles doesn't just think that because he peeked through the window on his way to the counter.

The Guy is definitely the brooding type, Stiles decides. He's like Mr. Darcy with the scowl on his face, but more muscular than fictional and, _oh my god,_ those eyes. They're pale and piercing in a way that makes Stiles want to go and hide somewhere in the back room and lock all the doors behind him. It's weird, because the rest of The Guy is all dark colours: black hair, black leather jacket, dark jeans. The light eyes don't really fit, except that they kind of do. Stiles blinks and realises that The Guy has said something and Stiles was too busy with staring to listen. 

“Sorry, what?” He tries his best smile. 

The Guy scowls in response. “I _said_ , one triple espresso.” 

“Please,” Stiles adds before he can stop himself and earns himself another glare. “I mean, you should say please, right? Be polite and stuff.” _Just shut up, Stiles._

There is absolutely no change in The Guy's expression and Stiles' smile falters somewhat. It's not that he's a little afraid, absolutely not. It's just that he's not used to people...not talking. 

“One triple espresso,” Stiles repeats, knowing he both looks and sounds like an idiot, when he tries to pretend that his previous statements never even existed. “Coming up!” 

Usually, Stiles likes making espresso because that machine seems to be the one grinding fastest and espresso comes in really tiny cups, but right now it feels like it's taking forever. The Guy is still standing at the counter, staring at Stiles like he's thinking of the best way to beat the living crap out of him. Thinking about it, he probably does, because Stiles _doesn't know how to shut up_. When he pushes the cup across the counter more carefully than usual (he's not sure that he'll get to keep both of his testicles if he manages to spill), The Guy simply grabs it and walks out without a word. It takes Stiles a moment before he realises that there's money lying right in front of him. At least The Guy had the decency to leave a tip. A big one. It makes Stiles wonder if maybe he just sold his kidney by mistake. 

It's just past lunch when Isaac has put on his apron and lets Stiles go home for the day. That's the only benefit with working the morning shift – he gets to go home early enough to make sure his dad eats what he's supposed to, not what he _wants_ to. That's easier said than done. 

“I'm not a rabbit, son,” his dad says when Stiles leaves him a salad at the station. 

“Could've fooled me,” Stiles mutters in response, because honestly, his dad says that every time he gets something else than hamburgers for lunch. It wouldn't kill him to be a little more inventive. 

“How was work?” 

For a moment Stiles watches his dad poke through the salad, like he's looking for something more tasty than tomatoes and kidney beans. 

“The usual. For once we had a customer before seven.” 

“Yeah?” his dad asks, but he's already flipping through his files and slowly chewing on a piece of cucumber like he's not sure if it's really edible. His dad may be the Beacon Hills Sheriff, and apparently pretty good at solving crimes, but he's very bad at paying attention to everything else. Stiles usually thinks that this is a good thing. 

“Gotta go meet Scott. See you later!” Stiles doesn't even wait to get an answer as he makes his way out the station. 

He doesn't tell Scott about The Guy, because there really isn't much to say except that he's creepy and good looking and Stiles doesn't know if he's supposed to be afraid or turned on. Honestly, Stiles thinks it's pretty weird that he even thinks about The Guy at all, because they stared at each other for what could be no more than five minutes, even though it felt like a billion years of near death-experiences. Except, not really. 

* * *

The best thing is that Stiles works evenings the rest of the week and The Guy doesn't show up. He's not sure if he's been around earlier either, and it's not like he's going to ask Isaac about it. 

“Has the creepy dude been around today?” It just sort of slips out. Really. He's making polite conversation. It's not like he wants to know. 

“The what?” Isaac asks, not looking up from the milk foam-heart he's creating. 

“Tall-ish, dark hair, creepy green-ish eyes, brooding... _ish_.” Stiles lifts one shoulder in a shrug. 

“Sorry man, all I heard was -ish.” Isaac grins at him, before smiling politely at the middle-aged woman standing at the counter. She swoons over the heart in the milk foam. 

Stiles sighs heavily inside. It's not like they're _that_ hard to make. 

“Oh my god, you're useless,” he mutters under his breath and ties the red apron a little too tightly, so he has to untie it and re-tie it again. 

By Monday, when Stiles works the morning shift again, he's almost forgotten about The Guy. Well, not exactly. But he's still surprised when the bell tinkles softly a quarter to six AM and when he looks up, he's met by a very familiar scowl. 

“Oh hey, man,” he says and instantly wonders why the hell he is smiling, because it's not like they had a nice chat last time The Guy came by. “Can I get you anything?” 

“Triple espresso,” The Guy replies immediately and Stiles has to bite his tongue to not make a remark on the fact that there wasn't a _please_ in there this time either. Rude. 

“Coming up,” he says instead and wishes that the machine could work wonders for him, but it still takes too many nervous glances to grind the beans. The Guy is scowling the whole time. Stiles wonders for a moment if it isn't too warm to be dressed in dark jeans and a leather jacket. It's summer after all. But he has a feeling that The Guy doesn't care as much about getting sweaty as he does about scaring the shit out of people from just looking at them. Stiles figures that a Hawaiian shirt wouldn't accomplish quite the same effect. On the other hand, The Guy probably looks absolutely terrifying in everything. Even a teletubby costume. 

“There you go.” He pushes the cup over the counter and smiles his best smile, but it probably looks like he's constipated. “Have a nice day.” 

No response. He watches The Guy leave, cup in one hand and the other in his pocket. Tries very hard not to check out The Guy's ass. Fails miserably. Now he's never going to stop thinking about him. At least there's cash and a heavy tip on the counter. It's confusing, because Stiles hasn't gotten the impression that The Guy thinks he does a very good job of being a barista. 

The tip still bugs him a few hours later. He's not even sure why. It's not like he's never gotten a tip way out of proportion for his work before. Usually it's from this really creepy man – creepy in a very different way than The Guy, named Ivan. Ivan is creepy in a way that makes Stiles want to hide every child in the neighbourhood somewhere safe. He only knows Ivan's name because he had to make sure he knows where the dude lives. Thankfully, it's on the other side of the town. Ivan does leave a crazy tip every time he buys coffee though and Stiles always feels like he should give it all back, or he'll have to gift his first born child to Ivan in return. 

The Guy, though. Stiles isn't even sure if he's thinking about the tip because it was way too much for a triple espresso, or because the money had been close to a very nice-looking ass. Probably a mix of both. 

“Stiles.” Isaac's voice makes him snap out of his thoughts. 

He looks down at the cup in his hand and then at the customer waiting for her order at the counter. “Well,” he says as he walks over to her, still looking down at her cup. He had been aiming for a milk foam-leaf, and well, this isn't a milk foam-leaf. “It's modern art. I'm thinking the soul of a panda, you know? I don't expect you to understand,” he rambles and he isn't sure if she's amused or annoyed. He really doesn't get why people care so much about the foam-creations and he's not nearly as talented in the area as Isaac, who once made Hogwarts in a Latte Macchiato.  

There’s always a dip in the stream of customers a little while after lunch and Stiles balances on the edge of the counter, telling himself that he's living on the wild side, and watches Isaac fill up coffee beans and new mugs before the next rush. 

“So, Mr Grumpy McBroodypants was in this morning as well,” he explains without knowing exactly why he feels like he has to talk about it. It’s not like The Guy is the first person to resist Stiles’ incredible charm. Actually, most people in the world are immune to it. 

“Yeah?” Isaac answers, probably more out of politeness than actual interest, because he’s suddenly very invested in making all the coffee cup lids face the same direction. 

“Yeah,” Stiles confirms. 

Isaac looks up at him, frowning like he’s missed something. He has. Unless he's seen The Guy's butt. In that case he has seen everything worth seeing in the world. 

“And?” Isaac urges, going back to his lid-obsession. Or fetish. 

That's a mental picture Stiles really didn't want.

“He’s still scowling every time he looks at me.” 

“I can relate to that,” Isaac mutters and Stiles has a feeling that he’s still angry about the fact that Stiles hasn’t wiped off the tables like he'd promised four hours ago. 

“I don’t get it though. I haven’t done anything to him. Actually I’m _smiling_ when I talk to him.” 

“There’s your reason.” Isaac deadpans. 

Stiles sticks his tongue out at him, because that’s the real level of his maturity. “I can be really charming when I want to.”

“I’m sure you can.” Isaac has his diplomatic voice and Stiles knows he only says so because he wants Stiles to shut up, but he’s not too picky, he’ll go with fake compliments. 

“He left a huge tip, too. I don’t get it,” Stiles continues, because shutting up is the one thing he won’t do. That and cleaning tables. Also, he won’t clean the customers’ toilet. But except for that, he’s pretty much up for anything.  

“Honestly, Stiles, he gives you a huge tip and now you’re mad because he’s scowling at you all the time? Maybe he’s just trying to bribe you into shutting up.” Isaac sighs heavily and tosses a packet of napkins at him, hitting him straight in the face. “ _Please_ , do something.”

“ _Fine_ ,” Stiles mutters and busies himself with refilling the containers of the napkins. If it wasn’t for the fact that he barely said anything to The Guy at all, Isaac could’ve been right. It wouldn’t be the first time. Maybe the dude’s just rich and doesn’t even realise how much money he’s giving Stiles. Maybe he wipes his ass with hundred dollar bills. _That ass_ , though. 

* * *

Stiles works the next morning as well, and like clockwork, The Guy enters the door at a quarter to six. Instantly, Stiles starts to wonder if he has OCD or if he just likes routine. His dad is like that. It’s like his whole life has an unwritten schedule of chores and he repeats them day, after day, after day. Once, Stiles was stupid enough to mess with _The Schedule._ Let’s just say he’s never doing that again. Ever. 

“Triple espresso?” Stiles says, just as The Guy opens his mouth. 

He gets a nod in response. Yeah, well, who expected a “please”, right? 

As the machine prepares, grinds the beans and slowly fills the cup one third at the time, Stiles notices that The Guy’s fingertips are smudgy. Maybe he really is a driver, or tows cars, or works as a mechanic. Enter instant dirty thoughts in Stiles' mind. 

“Are you a mechanic?” Stiles asks before he can stop himself. Damn, he promised himself to keep the conversation as minimal as possible today. 

“No,” The Guy scowls and glares at him for a moment, before he returns to looking out the window. He really has the most awesome eye-colour Stiles has ever seen. It’s like they’re almost luminous in the morning light. Great, now his thoughts are sounding like a Harlequin. 

“All right then,” Stiles sighs to himself. It’s not like he’s getting any information from the guy without torturing him, and no matter how tempting that thought is, Stiles’ pretty sure that it’s not in his work description. Also, he might get fired and that would be stupid. No torturing. 

He says nothing as he pushes the cup across the counter, and The Guy is as talkative as always when he grabs the cup and leaves. At least the tip is as generous as always, Stiles thinks as he gathers the money from the counter. He wonders briefly why The Guy seems to refuse to actually put the money in Stiles hand. Maybe he has a disease of some sort. 

Stiles spends the rest of the day googling on his phone and researching on what disease this could possibly be. It’s a bit difficult, because he has no idea what the symptoms are, except for the unwillingness to touch Stiles, which could be a disease on its own. Should be, at least. 

He meets Scott after work and is surprised to see him without Allison. It’s like they’re attached by the most private parts of their bodies. Stiles mentally vomits. He really needs to learn not to go there. 

“What’s up dude?” Scott asks, pressing buttons on the Xbox controller obsessively. 

It’s funny, because they’ve been playing for almost two hours and the question doesn’t pop out of Scott’s mouth until now. So far, he’s been whining about Allison going on holiday with her dad and Stiles stopped listening after fifteen minutes. Scott only needs him to hum understandingly anyway. 

“Got a grumpy costumer,” Stiles says, because Isaac is fed up with him talking about The Guy and Scott _owes_ him for putting up with the Allison-talk forever. 

“Yeah?” Scott tries to slash Stiles into pieces and fails miserably. _Obviously_. Stiles doesn’t even know why he bothers.

“Yeah, he comes in every morning. Says nothing except for his order. Not even _please_ or _thank you_. And then he leaves a shitload of tip and scowls at me and I don’t get it. I’m polite and everything.” 

Scott pauses the game and looks at him like he doesn’t even get why Stiles wants to talk about this. To be fair, Stiles isn’t sure why he wants to talk about this either. It’s just _something_ and it bugs him to no end. 

“Who is he, then?” Scott asks after long moments of staring, definitely questioning Stiles sanity, and returns to the game. 

“I don’t know. I don’t even know his name. He’s gotta be new around here, because I’d remember that face.” Stiles bellows a sound of victory when Scott’s character's head drops to the ground. 

“You crushing on him?” Scott has a funny look on his face, like he was the one cutting off Stiles’ head and not the other way around. 

“I _told_ you, I don’t even know his name.” 

“Maybe you should find that out then,” Scott suggests and starts a new round. 

Stiles only loses the next round because his mind is too occupied by thinking of ways to find The Guy’s name out. Not because he wants to Google him or anything, well, not _exclusively_ because he wants to Google him. It’s also a little bit because it would be cool to have something else to name The Guy in his thoughts than just that. Grumpy McBroodypants got old the first day. 

* * *

Stiles works the afternoon shift the rest of the week and has all the time in the world to perfect his master plan. It’s not that hard, really, he just needs The Guy’s ID, and with Stiles’ overpowering charm, it shouldn’t be that hard. On the other hand, The Guy seems to be the kryptonite to Stiles’ Superman and he might be making a fool out of himself. Not that that’s anything new to Stiles. 

The one time he actually got a chance to kiss a girl, at a party six months ago, he managed to puke all over his own shoes just as he was about to lean in. On the positive side: it was probably a good thing that he hadn't puked while actually kissing her. On the negative side: he didn't get to kiss her at all. It's a bit embarrassing to be eighteen and to have only kissed one girl – Lydia Martin, just after graduation, when she took pity on his pathetic crush since third grade. It had been very anticlimactic and Stiles had been forced to realise that his crush must have died somewhere along the way. At least he had stopped pining for her after that and they have been friends since, sort of. They don't talk much, but when they meet, she's doesn't ignore him. She's still the smartest and prettiest girl he has ever known though, but he just isn't in love with her anymore. Which probably is a good thing, since she got back with Jackson only minutes after kissing Stiles and he kind of doubts that they will break up a twenty-sixth time. Not that he keeps count or anything. 

The point is: Stiles isn't a stranger to make a fool out of himself, because it's basically his life. 

On Wednesday, a week later, he is working the morning shift again. Five-forty-five on the dot, the bell tinkles and Stiles doesn’t even have to look up to know who’s standing there, scowling at him. If Stiles didn't find The Guy so attractive, he would probably be a bit worried about his own safety by now. 

“Triple espresso?” he asks instead, without looking up, because if The Guy isn’t going to be polite, Stiles isn’t either. Because he’s mature like that. 

He assumes that The Guy nods and prepares the order. Only then, he dares to look up and sure thing, scowling like he’s trying to win an Olympic medal, there’s The Guy. He looks tired, but still hot, which bugs Stiles to no end, because Stiles can’t even look hot when he’s been sleeping for eleven hours straight. He notices the smudgy fingertips again and he wants to know why they look like The Guy’s been fixing up a car right before he walked in, when he’s not a mechanic. Unless he lied. Stiles wouldn’t put him past lying. 

“You should get our customer card,” Stiles says, and hopes that he sounds just as disinterested as he practiced at home. Admitting that he has actually practiced for this takes a good part of his pride, but what the hell. 

The Guy quirks an eyebrow and Stiles assumes that this is a question of _Why the hell would I ever want a customer card_? He doesn’t mind telling all the reasons. 

“For one: it’s much cheaper for you. Obviously you don’t seem to have a problem with money, er, because you throw money at me,” he rambles and flails like he always does when he gets a bit nervous, or excited, or angry. Or happy. Well, most of his waking time. “I really want to know what your profession is, because honestly, I could use some throwing money.” He mentally slaps himself. This isn’t _playing it cool._ “Second: er, well actually, this is more like a complement to my first reason, which is that you get a discount. You might already have guessed that, because I said that it would be cheaper for you. Not that I think you care about money, for reasons I’ve already stated. Oh, well, third: for every time we register your card, Mr. Berry will plant a tree in Africa or Asia, or somewhere _really_ far away, and who doesn’t want to help nature out, you know?” 

The Guy is staring at him like he’s an alien. Stiles is instantly worried that he has something on his face. 

“So,” he says slowly, when The Guy’s stare slowly morphs back into his usual scowl. “If you’d just give me your ID, I’ll hook you up with this super-amazing thing we call a Customer Card, which will help you save the planet.” 

For a moment, he thinks that The Guy will refuse and leave without even paying, which would be fair, because he has probably tipped enough to pay for twenty triple espressos in advance already. Then, The Guy fishes up his wallet from his pocket and pushes his ID across the counter towards Stiles. Still refusing to ever put something in Stiles’ hand it seems. 

 _Derek Hale_. The Guy’s name is Derek Hale. It isn’t as exotic as Stiles had hoped. He’s twenty-five. Seven years older than Stiles. It’s not that much. Stiles' dad would probably get his gun out if they ever were to date, but _it’s not that old_. 

Derek Hale – oh my god – makes an impatient sound, and Stiles jerks back to life. He enters all the information he needs for a customer card and gives back the ID along with the very red, very tacky-looking card (the print of coffee beans looks mostly like poop) and the triple espresso. Derek seems reluctant to take something out of Stiles hand, but then he reaches out and does so, without even grazing a finger against Stiles. Disappointment. 

“So yeah, have a nice day,” Stiles says slowly, and it’s weirdly intimate (probably just in his head) because now he knows Derek’s name. And age. Holy shit, he can Google him all he wants now. 

Derek doesn’t say anything before he leaves, which isn't much of a surprise, and like always there's cash lying on the counter waiting when Stiles looks down. He has a feeling that Derek Hale probably doesn’t care about the discount he’ll get, but Stiles’ speech was very convincing, so he must have bought the saving planet-part. Or it could’ve been Stiles’ charm. Yeah, no, definitely saving the planet. 

“Derek Hale!” Stiles exclaims as soon as Isaac steps through the door. Luckily, there are no customers around and Stiles only has to endure one person staring at him like he’s insane. 

“No,” Isaac says slowly, pointing at himself. “Isaac.” 

Stiles rolls his eyes, because that’s the lamest joke in the world. “The grumpy guy has a name. It’s Derek Hale. I’m going to Google him on my break.” 

“Now you’re just creepy,” Isaac says, shaking his head. It’s like he’s already given up on Stiles’ morale. 

“Yeah I know, it keeps me awake at night.” 

Stiles does Google Derek Hale on his phone during his break. He hadn’t expected to find anything because he’s never lucky like that. Much to his surprise, though, there are a number of hits. He clicks on the result links randomly and catches a few words and phrases here and there. He’s found a Derek Hale that’s a famous artist. At first, he’s sure that they're referring to another Derek Hale, because there’s _no way_ , but then he finds an article with a picture and _holy shit yes_ that’s Derek Hale who comes in and buys his triple espressos every morning, standing in a gallery with a disinterested look on his face. It doesn’t make any sense to Stiles whatsoever, because Derek is muscular with broad shoulders and leather jackets, not at all the artsy type with big glasses or funny clothes. 

He manages to find a site with a few pictures of Derek’s work and suddenly Stiles understands why his fingertips are always black – they’re all charcoal drawings. Scarily good charcoal drawings. It doesn’t seem to Stiles like Derek is one of those artists who draw a blue line on paper and tells the world that it’s a portrayal of the human mind. Stiles can actually understand Derek’s work, because they’re so frighteningly good that they look like photographs. Almost. It’s hard to tell on the display on his phone, but he’s definitely more the realistic type of artist. 

Stiles’ mind is effectively blown. Completely. Forever. 

Derek Hale is a damn grumpy artist, who drinks triple espresso once a day and tips a lot. This isn’t that strange, because from what Stiles can see in his Google search, Derek makes a ton of money on his drawings and he’s a bit of a thing. Stiles feels strangely proud. Maybe because there's someone famous for drawings that are actually possible to understand without having to smoke a ton of weed for once. Not that Stiles has ever smoked weed, but he has imagination. Maybe he's even more proud because he actually knows Derek. Well, he doesn't exactly _know_ Derek, but he's crushing so hard on him now that Stiles wonders if he's going to spend half of his life drooling after the guy, like he did with Lydia, so it still counts.

“He’s an artist,” Stiles sighs as he sits down in Scott’s couch. It’s so worn out that he actually sinks down _in_ the seat, rather than sitting _on_ it. 

“Who?” Scott asks immediately. Stiles has to give him points for not having mentioned Allison once during the five minutes it has taken Stiles to walk through the front door and up the stairs. Improvement. 

“The angry guy that buys coffee where I work, Scott,” Stiles explains like he’s talking to a child. 

“Oh right, him. He’s an artist?” 

“Yeah, a really good one, from what I can tell.” Actually, Stiles has read what all the critics have had to say, and none of them can really call themselves a critic anymore.

“Cool.” Scott starts the game, apparently never tired of getting his ass kicked, and gives the other controller to Stiles. “So you know his name?”

“Yeah, and then I Googled him.” 

Scott only rolls his eyes. He’s been friends with Stiles for so long that he’s not even surprised by the clear stalker tendencies. “Are you going to stop obsessing about him now that you know who he is?”

Stiles pauses the game and stares at Scott, who seems to wish that he had gotten to know Jackson instead of Stiles that day in pre-school. And Jackson is a douche, so that hurts a bit. 

“Dude, you can’t make him your new Lydia. It’s not healthy.” 

“He’s not my _new Lydia_. I might actually, you know, succeed this time.” 

Scott snorts, and Stiles can’t really blame him, because he’s definitely doubting this, too. 

“I could. I mean, what else could he possibly want?” 

“I don’t know,” Scott sighs. “Someone who’s able to shut up for once, or doesn’t Google his name.”

Stiles decides – after thinking about the pictures from the Google image search he has saved to his phone in case he wants to look at Derek when he's in the woods where the reception is bad – that yeah, he's definitely on the creepy side of the scale. 

Stiles doesn’t say anything because he’s a bit hurt. It’s not that he doesn’t know that it’s like aiming to become an astronaut when you’ve got a heart-condition, but Scott is his friend, it’s his job to be supportive. And lie, if it's needed. 

“Maybe you could call him,” Scott says after a while, and Stiles knows that he’s trying to make up for his previous mishap and that he doesn’t really think that Stiles has a shot. Stiles isn’t picky. He’ll take it. 

“I don’t really have anything to say,” he mutters, pushing the buttons frantically. “It’s not like I can tell him that I have free coffee waiting for him, or anything.” 

“Nah, but you could ask him out on a date.” Scott says it like it’s not the scariest thing in the world, next to alligators. Stiles wants to remind him of when he asked Allison out on a date and nearly puked before he finally managed to make the call. He doesn’t, because Stiles is a good friend.

“Yeah, I’ll just call and say: ‘Hey, Derek, this is the guy from the coffee shop who always talks to much and annoys you enough to look homicidal. I was wondering if you’d want to go on a date with me, even though you’re seven years older than me and probably straight.’” 

“It could work,” Scott says with a half-hearted attempt of a shrug. 

Stiles answers by cutting off Scott’s head. 

* * *

Stiles works the morning shift the entire upcoming week. There’s a heat wave over Beacon Hills and he’s very tempted to put himself in the freezer and shut the place down. The only positive side is that there aren’t many people who want coffee when breathing feels like fire in your lungs.

Still, every morning Derek walks in, five-forty-five on the dot, and orders his triple espresso. Stiles could have the order already prepared and standing on the counter if he wanted, but the only time Derek talks is when he's placing his order, and Stiles likes hearing his voice. Because Stiles is creepy. 

Derek is more grumpy than usual this morning. Stiles can tell, because the scowl is deeper and there’s a little more of a death threat in his glare now. He wants to ask if it’s because Derek seems to insist on wearing his leather jacket while it’s like a thousand degrees outside. It’s weird, because Stiles can picture Derek’s drawings in his mind, and the care they must have been created with doesn’t match the look of the artist at all. He very much wants to see Derek work, if only to make sure that there’s not another guy making all the drawings for him. 

“Triple espresso,” Derek mutters and slaps down the customer card on the counter. 

“Passionate about saving the planet, I see.” Stiles smiles his best smile, but Derek’s scowl only turns more threatening. “Triple espresso coming up.” 

Stiles has noticed that Derek still pays the regular amount for the espresso, even though he always uses the customer card. Either he’s just that rich, or he’s trying to tell Stiles that he’s not using it for cheaper coffee. Or he actually cares about the planet. Or he just likes to tip Stiles a shitload of money. Stiles desperately hopes it’s the latter. 

“So, what do you work with?” Stiles says, because he can’t actually tell Derek that he already knows. 

At first, he’s sure that Derek won’t answer, because he scowls even deeper and Stiles wonders for a moment if he shouldn’t be scared for real. But then: “I’m working on an exhibition,” Derek mutters under his breath and it’s clear in the tone of his voice that he doesn’t want any further questions about this. 

Stiles doesn’t care. “Yeah? Cool, man. What’s it about?” 

Derek glares at him, and Stiles takes a little extra time to search for the right size of lid to the cup, just to make sure that Derek has to stay and answer the question. 

“Portraying the human body.” 

Derek snaps the words out, but Stiles can’t help but feel a surge in the lower part of his belly at the last couple of words. He guesses that this is clear proof of his virginity.

He pushes the espresso over the counter again, having given up on Derek ever accepting it from his hand or being polite, and he doesn’t ask more questions, because that would be pushing his luck even further. He’s going to work over a long period of time, making sure that Derek trusts him, before he makes his move. Hopefully it won’t take years to accomplish this, because by then, Derek might already be married and have five children. 

Stiles wants to laugh at the thought of Derek ever having children. 

He scoops up the money from the counter just as Derek exits the door, espresso in one hand and the other buried deep in his pocket. If this was a GIF, someone would’ve put a blinking #SWAG on it. 

Stiles wants to touch. Really bad. God dammit. 

* * *

The next morning, Stiles’ itch to touch gets even worse, because the new heat record forces even Derek to take his jacket off. Stiles really isn’t prepared for the sight. Honestly. He wonders where all the air has gone when Derek walks through the door, a black t-shirt hugging his _everything_ just perfectly. Stiles already knew that Derek had muscles, but not that it was this bad. Or good. Depending on how you want to interpret the sudden lack of room in his pants and tightening in his belly. 

When Derek’s muscles flexes as he slaps the customer card down on the counter, Stiles decides that it’s good. That it’s _definitely_ good. Holy shit, it’s _so_ good. 

“You sure all this espresso isn’t going to give you ulcers?” Stiles asks as he prepares the usual order. Given by the look on Derek’s face, he might already have ulcers. He scowling even worse than usual and Stiles didn’t think that was possible yesterday. 

It’s no surprise when Derek doesn’t answer. When does he ever answer? 

“So, how’s the exhibition going?” Stiles presses on, ignoring the clear mental sigh and prayer to higher powers on Derek’s face. Oh, well, there are other coffee shops in the neighbourhood, if he hates Stiles that much. 

“All right,” Derek mutters and glances down on his wristwatch, like he’s trying to tell Stiles to hurry up. Thinking about it, that’s probably exactly what he’s doing. 

“Cool, where can I go if I want to see it?” Stiles says it casually, or at least it sounds casual to his own ears, but the way Derek’s eyes snaps to his face tells him a different story. “I mean, I’ve always been interested in art.” 

Not really. 

It’s not a lie _now_ , though. He hasn’t Googled art this much ever in his life before. Now he searches for Derek’s works whenever he gets the chance, because he sort of likes the way they take his breath away, and how quickly his fantasies gets R-rated, when he imagines Derek in the making of them. 

“City Art Museum,” Derek says after a long pause. It’s like he’s trying to determine if Stiles is lying or not. Maybe he’s able to read minds and is so disgusted by Stiles' thoughts that he doesn’t know what to say. Because Stiles can rarely keep his thoughts G-rated whenever Derek walks out of there. Or whenever Derek’s around, actually. Then Derek adds, so quietly that Stiles almost doesn’t catch it: “Hopefully.” 

Stiles doesn’t get the chance to ask what that’s supposed to mean, when Derek grabs the cup from the counter, even though Stiles’ hand is still wrapped around it. He manages not to make body contact again, though, much to Stiles’ disappointment. And then he leaves without a word, and Stiles looks down at the money on the counter for a moment, before he sighs very loudly to himself. He’s not going to miss the opportunity to ask tomorrow. Not a chance. 

* * *

The only problem is that Stiles has the evening shift the following day and that means a lot of staring into empty space and waiting for a lonely customer to place an order of a large coffee, usually because they’ve been driving for twenty-six hours. 

Stiles doesn't like that Mr. Berry thinks it's good business to have the shop open twenty-four-seven and there's no way that they're not making red digits in the book during these hours. It's not that Stiles minds doing nothing but playing games on his phone while getting paid for it. It's more the fact that he'd much rather be at home sleeping than working all together.

It’s better than lunch hours, though, because Stiles is pretty sure that running around behind the counter then is even worse than gym class in school. Or lacrosse practice. Because he never really got to play any of the games. 

He’s more than a little surprised when the bell tinkles at one-thirty AM and that Derek’s standing there, wearing his usual scowl, when he looks up. 

“Hey man,” he blurts and Derek looks a little uneasy with Stiles' surprise. Maybe he doesn’t like the thought of being so punctual and predictable that the barista gets surprised when he shows up at another time of the day. “Are you going to abuse your stomach some more with the usual?” 

Derek just nods curtly, like he wants Stiles to shut up and give him his coffee already. 

“So, I’ve been thinking,” Stiles says as he presses the buttons on the espresso machine and then he has to fight the blush off of his face. “Well, not really thinking, because it’s not like I walk around thinking about you or the things you say, but thinking a little bit you know, because I’m interested in people and…conversation.” _Oh my god, Derek's going to murder him._ “Anyway, what did you mean with _hopefully_?” 

Derek stares at him, for once not scowling, which might be a progress or a hint that he’s having a seizure. Stiles doesn’t really know. But of course, Derek has no idea what he’s talking about, because Derek has not replayed their conversation of yesterday in his head over and over, like Stiles has, because Stiles is a stalker. 

“You said that there will be an exhibition _hopefully_ ,” Stiles elaborates and the look on Derek’s face is at least a little bit less of a seizure-warning. 

“The models keep dropping out,” Derek answers after a very long pause. It’s so long that Stiles wonders for a moment if he thought his previous statement instead of saying it out loud, but apparently not. 

“That sucks.” Stiles puts the lid on the cup and hesitates a moment, before he pushes it across the counter. Like always. It’s a bit scary to think that they have some sort of routine in this. Also, it feels quite nice, because Stiles is pretty sure that this is the only routine he’ll ever have with Derek. 

He gets a nod in response and Derek turns to leave, but for some reason, Stiles panics at this and the words leave his mouth before he gets the chance to clamp his hand down over it. 

“I could do it.” It also sounds like he’s shouting. He probably is, actually, because Derek goes rigid before he turns around, just in time to see Stiles face take the same shade as his apron. “I mean, if it’s a crisis and you need someone, I mean, I could do it. I’ve never done it before, but I’m sure I’m a natural.” 

Derek stares at him, and Stiles literally bites his tongue to keep himself from rambling on and on out of sheer embarrassment and nervousness. It hurts. 

“How old are you?” Derek asks, like they’re having a whole other conversation that makes Stiles belly tighten so hard that he has to take a deep breath before he can speak. 

“Eighteen. I’m all legal.” He really shouldn’t have said that last part, especially not with the scowl that quickly pulls Derek’s eyebrows together. He has crazy eyebrows, by the way, for everyone in Stiles' head who wants to know. Stiles thinks about them more than what probably is appropriate. Or sane. 

“Okay,” Derek says slowly, and Stiles isn’t sure what question he just answered. 

“So do you want me to?” he asks, because honestly, they both speak English and this conversation shouldn’t be this confusing. 

“Okay,” Derek says again, before he leaves. 

"Ow," Stiles mumbles to himself and rubs a finger over his aching tongue. Then he realises what just happened and calls Scott. He doesn’t even care that Scott sounds out of breath and that it’s gross, because Stiles already knows that Allison is staying the night and it shouldn’t be that hard to guess why Scott can’t breathe like a normal person all of a sudden. 

Stiles just presses ignore a hundred times in his head, and rambles to Scott about what just happened. The words come out in a tumble and he isn’t even sure how Scott can make any sense out of this, but he does, and much to Scott’s credit, he _actually_ listens. Even though Allison is there. And even though Stiles is ridiculous. 

“Dude, you can totally call him now,” Scott says and Stiles wants to slap him, because one just doesn’t _call_ Derek Hale. 

“I can’t call him!” Stiles exclaims, his voice too high-pitched. 

“Add him on Facebook, then. Say it’s because you want to know what day you should be there.” 

“Oh my god, Scott. I love you so much.” Stiles makes kissing noises into the phone and hears Scott gag, before hanging up. He really makes up for his stupidity with brilliant ideas sometimes. Next mission on wooing Derek Hale: add on Facebook. Also, that could give Stiles the opportunity to see if he’s into guys or girls. Not that he thinks that Derek Hale of all people would take time to fill in that information on his Facebook account, but hope is the last thing to ever leave a human. Stiles has read this in a book. 

The rest of his shift, Stiles makes Facebook searches for Derek Hale. He had been thinking that it couldn’t be that common of a name. Clearly he’s wrong, because apparently a lot of people in South Africa are named just that. After limiting his search to the US, he scrolls through the results and doesn’t find anyone with a picture that’s Derek. So, he resolves to add every single Derek Hale that doesn’t have a picture. Not that he’s desperate or anything. He just wants to know when he’s supposed to be there, doing his job, modelling for Derek Hale.

Oh my god. It’s like he’s living a Harlequin novel. 

* * *

Three days later, and no Derek Hale turning up in the middle of the night for a bit of stomach-killing espresso, Stiles hasn’t had any of the Derek Hales adding him on Facebook and he’s starting to think that he’s being avoided. So, he starts flipping through the pictures of Derek he's downloaded into his phone from the Google search. He ignores the fact that he'll probably get convicted for stalking, or like sexual harassment if Derek finds out what he does to himself while looking at those pictures sometimes. Derek doesn’t look happy in any of them and Stiles has grown to wonder if he even knows how to smile, because honestly, he really must have painful ulcers if he’s been looking this grumpy for the past few years in the limelight. 

He can’t stop staring at Derek’s eyes. He knows that he sounds like a girl reading Twilight, but they really are the most fantastic eyes Stiles has ever seen. And Stiles has seen his own eyes, so that’s saying something. He can’t decide whether they’re light green, or a weird shade of blue, but since _weird shade of blue_ doesn’t sound sexy in his mind, he sticks to light green. Yeah, because Stiles makes up his own porn in his head while working the night shift, starring him and Derek. 

* * *

Stiles doesn’t see Derek again until next week, when he’s working the morning shift. He turns up at the usual time, makes his usual order, and says nothing about what they talked about last time. 

“So, I was wondering,” Stiles begins as he’s pushing the buttons on the espresso machine. “This modelling thing, when will I be doing it? What am I supposed to do?”

Derek quirks an eyebrow at him, which in itself is a bit of a surprise because he usually only has his scowl or a more surprised expression that Stiles calls his _did you honestly just say that-_ face. 

“Next week,” he says, and it’s not a question. “You’ll be naked.” 

Stiles is happy that he hasn’t picked up the cup yet, because if he had, it would be lying on the floor now. “Naked?” he echoes and he isn’t sure that he likes the smug look on Derek’s face. 

“I told you that it’s about the human body.” 

That he did. Stiles wants to kill himself. He had imagined something else completely. Perhaps his face on a gigantic piece of paper, and that would’ve been bad enough, but sort of worth it, because he would spend time with Derek. But _naked!_ Stiles hasn’t been naked with anyone but himself and his right hand. Showering after lacrosse practice doesn’t count. 

“Yeah,” he mumbles lamely and tries desperately to remember where the lids to the cups are. He sort of understands why Derek’s models have been quitting now. 

“Still up for it?” It’s the first thing Derek has ever asked him. 

“Yeah, sure. I’m sure I’ll be great at naked-modelling,” Stiles mutters and pushes the cup across the counter. He doesn’t sound as hysterical as he feels, luckily enough. 

“Monday, whenever you’re free.” Derek leaves, cup in hand, and Stiles is just about to shout after him that he doesn’t know where Derek lives, when he notices a business card on the counter along with the money. It’s not like he hasn’t _tried_ finding out where Derek lives, but apparently he doesn’t have an address registered to his name, or at least, none that Stiles can find. At least he hasn’t used his dad’s computer at the station yet, which would have been a last resort. 

Stiles calls Scott, definitely panicking. “He wants me to model _naked_ ,” he shouts as soon as someone picks up on the other end.

“What?” Scott sounds like he’s still sleeping, and well, it’s just a little past six AM. 

“He wants me to be naked, when he draws me. It’s… _I’ve never been naked with anyone, Scott,”_ Stiles hisses into the phone. It’s not really necessary, because he’s the only one in the shop. 

“I’ve seen you naked loads of times,” Scott yawns, like this isn’t the scariest and hottest thing that has ever happened to Stiles. 

He can’t help but think that maybe he should ask Derek to be naked while drawing him as well. It’s not going to happen, of course, because Stiles wouldn’t even have the courage to do that. But he can always pretend, in his dirty, R-rated mind. 

“It’s not the same thing, Scott,” Stiles snaps.

“Thank god for that.”

“You’re an asshole.” 

“Yeah, he’ll see yours.” 

For once Stiles realises that he's losing a war with words against Scott. That shouldn’t be legal. Scott barely passed high school English. 

Stiles wants to die when he realises that Scott is right. Derek will actually see _everything_. It’s definitely a scary thought. So scary that Stiles really thinks about calling Derek and saying that he’s busy and doesn’t have time. It’s so scary that he considers giving up on his total crush because _no one_ has ever seen him naked before. 

“What if I get a hard on?” he breathes into the phone and the panic must have been clear in his voice, because Scott laughs. Stiles wants to give him away to the highest bidder. Or just anyone who wants to take him and move to Alaska. 

“Then he might actually get that you’re into him.” 

“I’m terrified,” Stiles whines. 

“Of him or being naked?”

“Both.”

“Seems like a great guy if you’re afraid of him,” Scott quips and maybe he has a point, but Stiles chooses to ignore it. 

“It’s like…he’s just hot and dangerous you know.”

“Are you sure that he won’t lock you into the basement and keep you there for the rest of your life?” 

Stiles isn’t sure, but if he’s going to be naked in front of Derek for quite some time, he figures he could survive living in a basement for the remainder of his days. 

“I’m hanging up now,” Stiles mutters, ending the call before Scott has the chance to say anything else. He’s just way too nervous. Naked. With Derek Hale. He probably won’t even get an orgasm out of it. This can only lead to embarrassment and nothing good, but he doesn't care.

* * *

The days pass way too fast and way too slow. Derek comes in the same time as always, and orders the same thing that he always does. He seems to get grumpier and grumpier every time Stiles sees him, but Isaac says that he’s had Derek dropping by during the night shift as well, like he’s staying up all night. Stiles wonders if he’s trying to finish his pieces for the exhibition. It seems to be the only logical explanation. He seems so stressed that on some days, it seem to Stiles like Derek doesn’t recognize him right away. He even forgets to leave money one morning, but Stiles doesn’t remind him, because he’s already paid enough in tip to earn himself free coffee for the rest of the year. 

The next morning, Derek pays even more, like he remembers not leaving anything the day before. Stiles doesn’t know why he gets this uneasy feeling in his stomach whenever Derek scowls at him like he’s a stranger, before there’s a light of recognition in his eyes and he scowls his Stiles-scowl, instead. 

The guy really should get his ulcers looked up. 

“So, I’m off work at noon on Monday. So should I just drop by? Am I supposed to prepare myself…er, in some way?” 

Derek stares at him again. Stiles tells himself that he at least looks a little humoured. That’s got to count for something. 

Stiles has actually been thinking about this. Is he supposed to shave…like everything? Or does Derek prefer his models in their, er, _natural glory_? 

“It doesn’t matter,” Derek says shortly, before grabbing his coffee and leaving. 

Well, that was helpful. 

Before going to bed on Sunday, Stiles showers for an hour straight and scrubs every part of his body that he can think of. He hesitates for a moment before he grabs a razor and shaves – everything. Then he changes his mind, panics, and almost calls Derek to say that he won’t be able to make it, before he tries to tell himself that Derek won’t care. He’s done this a thousand times before. He contemplates giving himself a buzz-cut, because that’s what he’s used to, but his hair has grown a bit longer during the summer and he sort of likes it. He decides to keep it that way. 

He can’t sleep. 

Every possible scenario of tomorrow replays itself in his mind, over and over, until Stiles is sure that Derek is an alien and that he’s going to get probed. He finally falls asleep for a couple of hours, before his phone calls out to him, forcing him out of bed to get to work. 

He swallows down more coffee than is probably healthy during the first hour and then he's hyper-active and needs to pee constantly. He comes back from his third round in the bathroom, only to find Derek standing there, waiting at the counter. 

Stiles doesn’t even ask, but starts to prepare the triple espresso right away. Derek doesn’t say anything. No surprise there. 

“I’ll see you later,” he says, pushing the cup across the counter and wishes that he hadn’t told Derek when he gets off, because then he could have gone home for a couple of hours of sleep, before he has to stand naked in front of this guy. 

Derek only nods, before walking out of there. The tip is crazy today. Stiles feels like he’s being paid for sex. But he’s not that cheap. 

The hours until he gets off passes too quickly. Stiles feels himself panic, when it’s a quarter past eleven, and he knows that he’s going to be out of there in forty-five. And then he’s going to be naked. In front of Derek Hale. _Oh my god_. 

Isaac gives him a funny look when he shows up. It’s like Stiles' life crisis is visible or like he can smell it in the air. Or maybe it’s because Stiles is leaning against the counter, almost hyperventilating, rambling nonsense like _ohmygodI’mgoingtobenakedandhe’lldrawmypeniswithcharcoal_. That might be a bit of a tell. Stiles isn’t entirely sure. 

“Ready to leave?” Isaac asks as he ties his own apron. 

“No,” Stiles admits, feeling like he wants to hold on to the coffee machine and stay there until someone tears him off it. 

“No?” 

“I’m not ready for this,” Stiles whispers. He’s being a bit over dramatic, but it’s easier to pretend like he’s feeling worse than he really is, because if he was playing it down, he’d know that he was panicking more inside than on the outside. And that probably doesn’t make sense to anyone but Stiles. 

“What are you talking about, Stiles?” Isaac looks at him intently and he actually looks a bit worried. “Are you not feeling well?”

“Definitely not feeling well.” Stiles nods frantically, and then he straightens up, shaking his head. “But it doesn’t matter. If I’m not here tomorrow I’m probably abducted by aliens or locked in a basement somewhere.” 

“ _What_?” Isaac stares at him now, like he’s a crazy person. Yeah, well. 

“Nothing. See you tomorrow.” 

Stiles feels like he wants to take a shower in the sink in the back room, but he decides that cleaning up just a little bit will be enough. At least he finds that he doesn’t look quite as tired as he feels, when he stares at himself in the mirror. He wonders what his dad’s going to say about this when he finds out. 

 _Hey dad, just so you know, I've been picking up naked-modelling for an older guy who looks like a hot serial killer._ It’s a bit of a scary thought. 

On his way out, he grabs a coffee for himself and a triple espresso for Derek. If he really is an alien, this might work as a peace offering. Stiles is desperate. 

He’s already looked up the address on Google maps, and it’s not that far away. When he parks, Stiles realises that the address definitely doesn’t lead to Derek’s home. Unless Derek lives in an art institute, that is. He’s afraid that it’ll be impossible to find the right room, and that he’ll get lost and wander for eighty years, but Derek is actually standing in the reception, talking to a girl Stiles recognizes from school, when he enters. He thinks that her name is Erica Reyes, but he’s not sure. She was always one of the awkward kids. 

Yeah, like Stiles wasn’t. He doesn’t know if the fact that Derek doesn’t scowl, or that Derek is talking, is more shocking. 

He wonders if Derek has been waiting for him, because as soon as his eyes find Stiles, his face turns into its usual scowl and he motions for Stiles to follow him. 

“So I’m guessing this isn’t your place,” Stiles says as he hurries along behind Derek through the winding corridors. He’s never going to find his way back out. 

“It’s an art institute.” Derek makes it sound like Stiles is an idiot. 

“Yeah, hence my conclusion.” Stiles shrugs when Derek turns to glare at him and just gives him the espresso. Derek doesn't say thanks. It's like that word doesn't even exist in his vocabulary. 

They enter a room that smells heavily of paint and dust. There’s a small podium in the middle of the room, surrounded by spotlights that probably won't make him look his best, and a large easel on one side. It looks like Derek’s going to make a huge painting of Stiles. Naked. Everyone’s going to see everything. He’s never setting foot anywhere near the exhibition. 

Derek’s hands are much dirtier than usual, and there are black streaks up to his elbows. The fact that he’s wearing nothing but jeans and a t-shirt makes Stiles a little happier, though. 

“So…” Stiles says slowly. “I’ve never really done this before. What do you want me to do?” 

“Clothes off. Stand on the podium.” 

Stiles hasn’t expected the panic to just hit him full on like this. His heart is suddenly pounding so hard in his chest that it’s a little difficult to breathe. He tries to cover it up with a strangled cough and hopes that Derek doesn’t notice how his hands are shaking when he pulls his shirt off and kicks his shoes across the floor simultaneously. It’s a miracle that he doesn’t trip. 

The hardest part is taking his underwear off. Is he supposed to do it slowly and try to be sexy, or just shuck them quick as hell to get it over with? In the end, Stiles goes with the latter, because he tried doing the sexy thing in his bedroom, and it didn’t come off very sexually alluring even then. 

And then he’s naked. So, so, _so_ naked. Derek doesn’t even look at him. He’s busy sorting his charcoals by size. 

“Turn so I get your profile, and tilt your head back a little.” Derek still doesn’t look up, which is a bit of a comfort, but Stiles also feels a bit offended, because _hello, naked_! 

He positions himself on the podium. Taking a step up there is the most awkward part, because it’s higher than he expected. His muscles are quivering just a little as he tries his best to stand still. At least he’s facing the windows and he’s staring out over a lot of nature and no human beings whatsoever. Relief. 

“Ready?” Derek asks, and Stiles looks over at him quickly. He seems completely unfazed by the fact that Stiles is very naked. It's a bit disheartening.  

He wants to say no. A little bit because he wants Derek to be at least a little affected by this, but mostly because Stiles doesn’t like his profile. His nose is funny. 

“Yeah. I want you to draw me like one of your French girls, Jack.” 

Derek stares at him and Stiles wants to bang his head into a wall. 

“Titanic?” he tries, but the blank expression on Derek’s face makes it clear that nope, Derek hasn’t seen that movie. “Oh my god, you don't know Titanic?!” 

He gets a pained expression in return. 

Oh well, at least Derek’s showing more than just his usual scowl. 

Being a naked model really isn’t as wild and crazy as Stiles would have thought. He has to stand completely still, for once, and re-arrange his body when Derek tells him to. Stiles has a hard time doing so, causing Derek to look like he wants to kill him after thirty minutes. Plus, it’s incredibly boring. Stiles wishes that he had brought his DS, so he could catch some Pokémon while waiting. He could turn the sound off, so that Derek wouldn’t be too bothered.

Stiles sneaks a glance at Derek every now and then. It's a bit surprising to see him look so relaxed. There is nothing that's even remotely close to a scowl on his face, just a small crease between his eyebrows, like he's concentrating hard. Stiles finds it hard to swallow whenever Derek glances up for a moment and seems to zoom in on a part of Stiles' body. His hand is working quickly, one moment he's drawing what sounds like harsh lines, and the next he seems to be smoothing them out with the side of his thumb or the pad of his forefinger. It's weirdly intimate to realise that Derek is sort of touching his body in a way.

Stiles shivers and he sort of wishes that there was a clock somewhere on the wall, so he can keep track of the time. Nothing outside changes, except for the light that seems to grow dimmer and dimmer with every stroke of Derek's charcoal. Stiles likes the sound of it. 

Derek's lips move like he's talking to himself while drawing. For someone who doesn't say a syllable without cause, this is quite a fascinating change. 

Stiles hadn't thought it would be possible for him to get any more obsessed than he already is, but watching Derek now, he already knows that he was wrong. He looks longingly at the dark shade of stubble on Derek's face, remembering so clearly that he had been clean-shaven the first time he had entered the shop. Stiles suspects that he's too busy finishing his pieces for the exhibition to shave. He doesn't mind though. It's hot, actually. At the same time, it's a bit disheartening, because it's such a reminder of the age difference between them. Seven years is a lot. Especially when Stiles just graduated high school and Derek's famous among art-people. 

Stiles sighs, a bit louder than he attempted, and Derek looks up. It's a little surprising that he doesn't scowl, but he looks snapped out of his drawing-trance at least. Stiles' heart cracks open a fraction at the unguarded expression in Derek's eyes. For a moment, he feels like he's seeing someone else behind that usual scowl. It's gone in a second, but the crack doesn't close back up. 

“Tired?” Derek asks. 

Maybe it's Stiles ears that are fooling him, but his voice sounds softer, too. He wants to say no, because even though it's pretty fucking boring, seeing Derek for more than five minutes at a time is something that Stiles is reluctant to let go. 

“A bit,” he says after a moment of silence. It's not really a lie, but his muscles are screaming for a change in position and he's getting a bit cold. And he's naked. Butt naked. Stiles will never grow accustomed to being naked in front of another person. 

“When can you come back?” It's not: _could you come back,_ or _would you come back_. But Stiles already knows that Derek isn't the politest of people. 

He gives a one-shoulder shrug. “I'm working the night shift tomorrow, but I'm free Wednesday.” 

“Okay.”  

“I'll need to sleep for a while, but I could come by around ten-ish.” Stiles glances over at his clothes. Derek has already put his charcoal down and he wonders if he's supposed to put his clothes back on, or if he's supposed to wait for an order. 

Derek just nods, like it's all the same to him. 

“I–” Stiles begins, but trails off because he has no idea what he was going to say. Probably just aiming to kill the awkward silence, per usual. “Can I put my clothes back on?” 

Derek gives him that look again, the _did you honestly just say that-_ look. Stiles likes the scowl better; it doesn't make him feel unintelligent. He interprets the look like a yes and hastily scrambles to pull his underwear and jeans back on. When he glances up, he's both relieved and a little disappointed to find that Derek isn't looking, but is busy putting his charcoals back in their box. 

“So,” Stiles says ,and clears his throat awkwardly to get Derek's attention. He gets a glare. Small victories and all that. “Am I your worst model ever?” 

“No.” It's just a word and it's said with the usual scowl, but it makes all the knots in Stiles' stomach loosen up a bit. He likes to think that Derek would be honest with him. 

“Really?” he asks anyway, because he needs to hear it again. 

“Yes.” 

He might learn that Derek won't give him a speech about all his assets, eventually. “Do I have to be naked next time, too?” 

“Yes.” 

“My dad's going to kill me when he finds out.” 

Derek gives him a look and he's quiet for a moment before he says: “Why?” 

“He's the sheriff. I'm sure he wouldn't be too happy with his only kid posing naked for older guys in his spare time, you know?” 

Derek stares at him and Stiles isn't sure if he's angry or horrified, or both. 

“What?” 

“Your dad is Sheriff Stilinski?” 

“Yeah, I thought you knew.” 

“I don't even know your first name.” 

Oh. There goes all of Stiles' dreams of them having a passionate relationship. Because yeah, Derek doesn't even know his name. Way to kill his confidence. 

“Right. I forgot.” He's just about to actually tell Derek his name, well not his _real_ name, because that would be ridiculous, but present himself as Stiles, when Derek gestures to the front doors to the institute. 

“See you Wednesday.” 

Stiles doesn't _want_ to be an over-emotional teenager. He really doesn't. But he can't help to feel a bit angry and disappointed while driving home. He has just been standing naked on a podium for several hours, and Derek doesn't even ask his name. What the hell? 

He's a bit hurt, too. 

When he stops by the station to check on his dad, mostly to make sure he's eating what he's supposed to, he bumps into Danny who's walking out of the building just as Stiles is about to enter. 

Danny is probably the polar opposite to Derek. He's a person everyone likes and he has a way to make the whole room feel warm and cosy from just smiling. He's the nicest guy Stiles knows and he's a lot smarter than Scott. He's also the guy who Stiles asked if he was attractive to gay guys, which might have been a bit tactless, but Danny didn't mind much. 

“Checking up on your dad?” Danny smiles knowingly, because it's not a secret that Stiles tries to make his dad eat more healthy. He has a high cholesterol, so something has to be done.  

“Yeah, need to make sure he's not eating steak seven days a week. You're finished for today?” 

Danny helps out with the station's computer archive over the summer because he's a magician when it comes to computers. 

“Yup, and your dad had a veggie burger and salad for lunch, so you won't have to lecture him.” 

Stiles wants to kiss Danny, because he's the best spy he could have ever asked for, mostly because Stiles doesn't have to ask him at all. “I love you,” he says instead and Danny just laughs before he walks over to his car. “You know, we should do something sometime!” 

He doesn't realise how that might have sounded, until Danny raises his eyebrows at him. It wouldn't be impossible, since Danny is gay and Stiles is bi, but he's pretty sure that Danny likes his boyfriend a lot and Stiles...yeah, Stiles wants to have Derek. Or wanted, until Derek proved to be an ass that doesn't even know his name. 

“Not like that,” Stiles sighs and Danny grins before opening his car door. 

“We should!” 

It's a good thing that Danny really is the nicest person on the planet, because Stiles really isn't up for misunderstandings right now. He's still mad with Derek for not totally crushing on him as well. 

The station has a strange mixed smell of guns, uniforms and paperwork, and Stiles has loved it ever since he walked in here for the first time. 

“Hey dad,” he greets as he finds his father sitting at his desk, signing important papers, probably. 

His dad looks up and smiles briefly, before returning to his papers. “Have you come to make sure I'm sticking to your menu, son?” 

“Nope, I already have spies to tell me when you cheat.” Stiles grins widely when his dad frowns. 

“How was work?” 

Changing the subject. Clever. 

“It was fine.” _And when I was finished, I stood butt naked in front of another guy for hours. My penis is probably going to be shown on an exhibition, how cool is that?_ Stiles wonders if his dad would kill him or Derek first. 

“You sure you don't want to go to college yet?” 

“Next year, dad, next year. Then you can eat all the crap you want to.” 

“I'm counting down the days.” 

It would've been funny if Stiles didn't suspect that it was, in fact, true. 

* * *

Stiles knows that he's behaving like a baby when he doesn't want to get out of bed the next day. He's been there all morning, trying to avoid the fact that he has to go to work eventually. It's afternoon when he finally manages to tell himself to shower and get ready. It's a bit of a comfort that Derek rarely comes into the shop during the night shift, but Stiles doesn't feel like even risking meeting him. He's also planning on not showing up at the art institute tomorrow, because that's how mature he is. 

What's even more embarrassing is that he doesn't even have a reason to be hurt because he's a barista where Derek buys his coffee and he just happened to volunteer to model, but it's not more than that to anyone. Except for Stiles. Because Stiles is an idiot. 

It's not even normal to be this upset about something like this. He tries to tell himself to get a grip, but his brain must have turned deaf over night. 

Isaac seems to know that there's something wrong the very moment Stiles steps inside the door, but he doesn't ask, he doesn't even hint. Stiles wants to kiss him. 

“I talked to Scott and Danny yesterday,” Isaac says when evening rush is over. “We're thinking Video Game Night, Friday. You in?” 

Just what Stiles needs. Something to take his mind off of things. He wants to kiss all of his friends now. “Yeah, definitely.” 

“Awesome.” Isaac's smile hints relief, like he's been afraid that Stiles is too depressed to do anything. 

A few hours later, Stiles is on his own in the shop, which is insane if one thinks about the risk of getting robbed. But there's like one crime a year in Beacon Hills, and that's usually someone speeding, so he probably doesn't have to worry anyway. 

He wants to hide and die when he catches the sight of Derek through the windows. It's like he has a radar that makes everything else unimportant whenever Derek is around. Now he's about to walk through the doors like he didn't hurt Stiles' lame emotions just yesterday, scowling like nothing serious has happened. That sentence really wouldn't have made any sense at all if Stiles wasn't referring to Derek. But he is, so it works. 

Quickly, Stiles prepares the triple espresso and just when Derek reaches the counter, he pushes the cup across it. There really is a positive side of Derek always ordering the same thing, in situations like these. 

“Don't bother,” he sighs when Derek looks a little surprised and reaches for money. “It's not like you haven't tipped me enough to get free coffee the rest of the year anyway.” 

A few weeks ago, Stiles would never have thought that he would be able to turn away from Derek, because _hello_ , _gotta take the opportunity to look_ , but he does now. He pretends to be busy with filling up new cups, even though there's already more than enough, and then he wipes off the espresso machine, even though he's already done that twice. 

Derek stands there for a few moments. Stiles knows because he hasn't heard the bell tinkle and his heart is stuck in his throat. He's ridiculous for even behaving this way. He doesn't have a reason to. He's behaving like a three year old. 

He hears the sound of Derek placing coins on the counter, probably along with a bill or two, and has to resist the urge to turn around and shout at him to take his money back. 

In secret, he kind of wants Derek to ask him what's wrong, so that Stiles can forget all about his idiotic behaviour and keep lying to himself that Derek _does_ care and is also secretly crushing on him, too. But Derek is probably more emotionally constipated than anyone Stiles has ever met before, and it's only another moment before he can hear the sound of the bell. 

When he turns around, he finds enough money on the counter to pay for at least four triple espressos and he feels like he should put all of it in an envelope and send it back to Derek, because Derek is an ass for not loving Stiles. 

* * *

The following day, Stiles wakes up at seven AM, even though he worked late and his heart is gnawing with bad conscience. He doesn't give in and watches the minutes on the clock of his bedside table tick away. He gets another round of _maybe I should go because he's counting on me_ -thoughts around half past ten, but then he shakes his head “no”. 

It's not his job to make sure that Derek has enough pieces to his exhibition. If his reputation in the art world is anything to go by, from what Stiles has been able to tell through articles at least, it's not like he's going to be in a crisis if Stiles doesn't stand naked on a podium for another few hours. 

Maybe it's weird that Stiles kind of wants Derek to need him. Maybe that's just normal for someone who crushes on strangers after seeing them for five minutes a few days a week. Maybe he just doesn't want Derek to be another Lydia in his life. 

He gets out of bed a quarter past twelve and makes breakfast – cereal and milk in a bowl, it's like he could be on Top Chef. There is still a feeling of him doing something incredibly stupid that he's going to regret in his stomach, but he does his best to ignore it and decides to kill a few hours with online games. 

His bad conscience is going to kill him. He feels sick around two PM for leaving Derek like this. Maybe he's waiting for Stiles. Maybe he's worried that something has happened on his way over there. Or _maybe_ , Stiles tells himself sternly, he's talking to Erica Reyes, because Derek obviously doesn't have a problem talking to her. 

Stiles hates his brain for thinking thoughts that he hasn't approved of and he tries calling Scott six times without result, before he remembers that Scott is away with Allison's family the entire day. 

It's incredibly stupid, he knows, but he still decides to go to the coffee shop. He wants to talk to Isaac for a while when the stream of customer is low anyway and maybe have a cup of coffee for himself. 

Just as he opens the door, he finds Derek standing at the counter and Isaac talking to him. _Traitor_ is the first word that pops into Stiles' mind, and he's not even sure whom he's referring to. Then he panics because Isaac looks up as the bell tinkles (Stiles is going to run it over with his jeep a thousand times until it _dies_ ) and says: “There he is.” 

The normal, sensible thing to do here would be to enter and make up a lame excuse for not showing up, like his dad having a seizure or that his cat died. But no, Stiles, because he's neither normal nor sensible, turns and walks right back out. Because that's not at all making his mission to avoid Derek until next year very obvious. 

“Stiles!” Isaac calls after him, but really, it's not like he's going to go back in there and say _oh hey,  I wasn't backing out of the door when I saw you because I'm_ avoiding _you or anything._ Nope, Stiles just keeps on walking, a bit quicker than a normal, non-paranoid, person would. 

“Stiles.” 

It's not a shout this time. Derek doesn't have to be loud for Stiles' brain to register every damn syllable that leaves his mouth. He tries really hard to stop himself, but it's like his body wants to betray him and turns around on its own, when his mouths snaps: “So _now_ you care about my name?” 

Before he can say anything else, equally embarrassing and probably ripped straight out of a chick flick, he scurries down the street and prays that Derek won't try to follow him. He's such an idiot. Holy shit he's _such_ an idiot. Not to mention a drama queen. He could have had his own Days of Our Lives, starring only him, and it would be drama enough for twenty-seven seasons. 

Not showing up at the art institute – biggest mistake ever, he decides as he finally flops down on his bed. It's not like he can go back to work, because Isaac knows that he's running away from Derek and now he's going to ask why. It's not like his retreat today was subtle. Also, saying what he said to Derek definitely erased the little score he might have had on the coolness-factor. It probably ruined the (probably very small) chance of him charming the pants off Derek as well. 

It's impossible to explain what he did with something that doesn't make him look like even more of an idiot after all. 

He spends the rest of the day searching for colleges accepting late applications in Alaska. 

* * *

On Thursday, Stiles works the morning shift again and he feels like he can’t breathe when the hands on the clock slowly moves closer to a quarter to six. He hasn’t been able to sleep all night, because he’s been thinking about this particular conversation. There won’t be anyone around to save him if Derek’s decides to kill him, or even worse: make him cry. 

Stiles hasn’t cried since his mother died and that was years ago. He isn’t up for doing it again anytime soon. 

Twenty minutes to six, Stiles places a cup with a triple espresso on the counter and decides to disappear into the back room. Derek can put two and two together. He’ll get it. A few minutes later, the bell tinkles and Stiles holds his breath. If it’s anyone but Derek (which it won’t be but one can never be a hundred percent sure, right?) they will call out for him in a couple of moments, and if it’s Derek... Well, he won’t. 

He stays in there for longer than what’s probably necessary, even though the bell has already sounded again because he’s afraid that Derek will be there waiting for him when he gets back. 

The shop is empty when he walks back out and there is money on the counter – no surprise there. He is half-expecting Derek to have left a note for him, along with the money, but there’s just a crazy amount of tip. 

The next day, Stiles wants to call his friends and tell them that he’s seriously ill and can’t make it to Video Game Night, but he won’t, because Isaac might tell the others about the little incident the other day, when Stiles practically fled the coffee shop. He'd like to be around to defend himself when that happens. 

Scott is the only one there when he arrives, which isn’t weird because it’s Scott’s house after all. It’s also a bit of a relief, because Stiles wants to be the one to tell him about his freak out. 

“I wasn’t sure you would be wearing clothes,” Scott grins as soon as he steps inside the door, and Stiles is really happy that Mrs. McCall isn’t home because she would _so_ misinterpret that statement. 

“Turns out, I’m not going to make it in the naked modelling business.” Stiles gives himself credit for actually attempting to joke about this. 

Scott’s face falls instantly. Stiles has to give _him_ a little credit for being enough of a supportive friend to actually have the tact to be surprised by Stiles’ failures. Anyone else would have expected this. It could also mean that Scott’s a bit thick for not already being able to foresee these kinds of things after being Stiles friend for so long. 

“No! Why? I thought you were going to be married by now.” 

“Turns out he doesn’t even know my _name_.” Yes, Stiles is perfectly aware of that he’s sounding like one of those girls in teenage movies, when they talk about their loser boyfriends. 

“Really? Would’ve thought he’d stalked you enough to know your name by now.” Maybe it’s an indication that today’s world is sick, when Scott just assumes that people would stalk each other online enough to find these things out without asking a question. Or maybe that he's been friends with Stiles for too long.

“I think it’s because he’s old.” 

Stiles doesn’t get the chance to answer, because Isaac and Danny barges through the door. Knocking is apparently not a part of their upbringing. 

He notices the look Isaac gives him, but tries to avoid that conversation. At least for now. He might be able to handle it in a while, when everyone isn't listening. 

They even make it through half of the evening without having a discussion about it, until Scott asks Stiles to refill the snack bowl. It’s no surprise when Isaac volunteers to help him and he knows that it’s unavoidable. It’s definitely better to have this conversation in Scott’s house than at work. 

“What happened?” Isaac asks as soon as they are in the kitchen. 

Stiles does his best to pretend searching through the cabinets, even though he’s well aware of where Scott keeps the snacks. 

“What?” he answers airily, trying to sound like he doesn’t know what Isaac is talking about, which is definitely stupid, because Isaac was there when Stiles fled out the door. 

“I might be talking about the time when you ran out of the shop because the dude you helped out was in there.” 

“Oh, right.” Stiles gives up on bullshitting when he turns and finds Isaac standing there with both bags of crisps in his hands, glaring at him. Isaac 1, Stiles 0. 

“It wasn’t the best experience of my life having one of our regulars asking me where you are, because you had promised to come by and then you don’t show up. I thought you’d been in an accident!” 

“It wasn’t even nearly that cool,” Stiles mumbles and traces the edge of the snack bowl with his fingertip. 

“Care to tell me how uncool it was, then?” 

“Not really,” he tries, but Isaac glares at him again and Stiles gives in. “I was supposed to model for him, you know, because he’s an artist and I’m…”, he trails off, wondering if the best choice of words would be _stalking him,_ or _want to lose my virginity to him_. 

“Crushing on him?” Isaac offers. 

“Pretty badly, yes.” Stiles smiles meekly, feeling like an idiot when Isaac rolls his eyes. 

“I should’ve known.” 

“Well, it really isn’t that hard to guess. I mean I guess I had to have another obsession, now that I’m over Lydia.” He shrugs, reaching for a bag of crisps, but Isaac pulls it out of his reach. “What do you want me to say?”

“You haven’t told me what happened.” 

“You’re such a high-maintenance friend,” Stiles mutters, but sighs in defeat. “Well I was there, naked, very naked. Terrifyingly so. God, I was _so_ naked.” 

“ _Stiles_ ,” Isaac snaps. “Focus.”

“Okay, okay! Well I was there, naked,” he says again, and Isaac groans like he’s in pain. “And he was drawing me, and I felt like Rose in Titanic, but I didn’t have the pendant you know? I guess it wouldn’t have looked as good on me, since I don’t have boobs, anyway. So, we decide that I’ll come by Wednesday, that’s two days ago. Well you’d know, since you were there when I escaped the crime scene, so to speak. But then we’re about to leave the art institute and I kind of tell him that my dad’s the sheriff and he’s all like _Oh my god! Why didn’t you tell me this sooner_ kind of, but not in so many words, because he doesn’t do multiple sentences in a row. And I asked him how he couldn’t guess that I’m the sheriff’s kid, because you know, it’s not like Stilinski is the new Jones, right? And he’s all like: _I don’t even know your first name_ , and I was probably overreacting.” 

“And then what?” 

“No, that’s pretty much it.” 

“You decided not to show to your next meeting because he didn’t know your name?” 

It sounds even more stupid now, than it has sounded in Stiles' head the past few days, and it's not like he has been thinking back on it in positive terms. 

“Uh, when you say it like that,” he mumbles, but decides to not elaborate further. 

“You should probably talk to him.” 

“It’s _probably_ not that necessary,” Stiles disagrees. Yeah because, no, he’s not talking to Derek. Talking to Derek on a good day is like talking to a dead stone, and he doesn’t really want to find out what it’s like on a bad day. 

“He’s a regular, Stiles.”

“Yeah, I know. I also know his order and this morning it worked pretty perfectly to just put it on the counter and hide in the back room until he left. He still paid and everything.” Stiles talks quickly, because he thinks that maybe it will make his idiocy less obvious. 

“ _Stiles_ ,” Isaac snaps again and Stiles feels like he’s being scolded just a little bit. 

“Yes, Isaac?” 

“He already knew your name.” 

“No, he didn’t. I mean, he did yesterday, because you know, the way you shouted it, the whole town probably knows it by now.”

“He asked me your name weeks ago, because I have a name tag and you don’t, and he was asking why, and I told him that you don’t wear yours because you don’t like your real name, but that we just call you Stiles.” 

“I actually have a very hard time imaging Derek using that many words,” Stiles says drily, positive that Isaac is just making shit up to make him feel better. 

“Okay, fine, he said ' _you have a tag, the other kid doesn’t.'_ ” 

Stiles thinks that that actually does sound a bit more like Derek. Not the voice though, because Isaac is useless when it comes to making impressions. 

“SNACKS!” Scott bellows from upstairs, making them both jump, and Stiles grabs a bag from Isaac’s arms quickly. 

“Why would he say that he doesn’t know my name if he does? It doesn’t make sense.” 

“Would you admit that you did some stalking and know stuff about him that doesn’t make sense, just like that?”

 _Actually yes_ , because Stiles isn’t all that aware of how uncomfortable it makes people feel when he tells them that he already knows pretty much all about them there is. But apparently, Derek’s not of the same opinion. He guesses that it makes sense, sort of. 

“Didn’t think of that.” 

“It’s like you have something in your DNA that makes it impossible for you to make it easy for yourself.” 

“Yeah, it’s like a recessive gene, on my mother’s side. I can’t really help it.” 

Isaac looks like he’s trying not to laugh and Stiles feels a little better about himself. Not just because Derek apparently is madly and irrevocably in love with him, like Bella Swan, but also because Isaac is a pretty good friend at the end of the day. 

“You’re an idiot,” Isaac sighs, as they make their way upstairs with bowls of snacks. 

* * *

The next day Stiles works hard to get himself enough courage to go to the art institute and, well not apologise, because Derek is the mean one here, but at least pose naked on a podium for another few hours so the piece can be finished for the exhibition. 

It’s almost eight PM when he finally starts his jeep and drives the short way there, his heart is beating like it’s going to jump out of his chest all the way from his house to the moment he stands in the foyer of the institute. There’s no Erica Reyes in the reception now and no one else seems to be around to ask for directions. He suspects that Derek is in the same room as last time, because he left all his things there when they ended their previous _Stiles is naked with an older guy_ -session. The problem is that Stiles was way too preoccupied with looking and thinking and smelling Derek to ever pay attention to where he was walking. 

Sometimes he’s not too impressed with himself. 

Actually, make that most of the time.  

Stiles shakes his head, attempting to clear it from thoughts and looks around. He recognises the corridor to the left and decides to give it a try. What’s the worst thing that can happen, really? Except that he could get lost and starve to death, and it’s Saturday, so no one might find him until Monday and then it’ll be too late. But that’s not very probable, he tries to tell himself, even though he’s a bit terrified by the thought of walking around in an empty institute on his own. 

If there is an axe murderer in the building, he’s going to be pleased because Stiles will die from just hearing footsteps that aren't his own. He’s a murderer’s dream, really. Unless they get off on the actual chopping-people-apart-while-still-alive bit, because then he’s their worst nightmare. 

Oh god, he’s so thinking too much again. 

It takes a good fifteen minutes before he finds the same room, and during that time Stiles has considered making emergency calls twice and sent five panicked texts to Scott, who just tells him to keep walking. He’s the worst friend. 

Stiles forgets all about being scared when he finds the right room. He just knows. Maybe it’s the smell. Or maybe it’s just the way his chest tightens as he glances through the crack in the door. He’s both surprised, and yet not, to find Derek there. He’s drawing, hand moving furiously, only to smooth the lines out again just seconds later. Stiles wants to stand there and watch the look on his face and the way he speaks to himself too low for Stiles to hear. He just wants to watch, because this Derek isn’t the one Stiles knows. He likes this Derek. He wants this Derek. 

Clearing his throat awkwardly, he knocks quietly on the door and pushes it open. Derek’s eyes snap away from the easel to him at the sound and his face closes up instantly. Stiles hates himself for having this effect on Derek. 

He tries to find his voice, but it’s a long, intense silence before he manages to croak out: “Hey.” 

Derek doesn’t answer. He just looks at Stiles and there’s something in his eyes that makes it a little uncomfortable. Stiles can't even pin down what it is.  

“I–” he begins and trails off immediately. It’s strange, it’s only around Derek that Stiles doesn’t know what to say. Or Stiles rarely knows what to say, but around other people he doesn’t care and talks anyway. With Derek, his mind just goes blank. Blank. Blank. “Well, I’m here,” Stiles blurts, when the silence has been suffocating him for too long. 

Derek raises his eyebrows, as to say: _obviously_. 

“If you want to finish the painting.” 

Inside, Stiles wants to shout: _and you know my name, you bastard! Why didn’t you tell me that you’re totally into me?!_ He’s happy that he at least has enough of a filter to stop him from saying it out loud. 

“Okay,” Derek says after a moment. He takes down the canvas that’s now on his easel and puts it against the wall, the back to them, preventing Stiles from seeing what it’s portraying. Then he disappears into another room and comes back with the one Stiles assumes is of him. He can't see that one either.

He’s confused for a second when Derek looks at him like he’s waiting for something, and then his brain clicks. “Oh right, _naked_. I keep forgetting that part.” 

It’s even more awkward to get undressed than last time, because Stiles tries to make it a little sexier and not as rushed. He suspects that he doesn’t succeed very well, but at least he doesn’t trip over himself, or face plants into the wall. 

“Like last time,” Derek says before Stiles can ask him, and it’s a bit of a relief because Stiles isn’t really comfortable with having conversations while his penis is visible for other people than himself and his fantasies. 

He hates stepping up on the podium. It’s like the evening light is solemnly on him now, singling him out and somehow that's even worse than the spotlights. His body isn’t a super-model's. Definitely not. He’s lanky and awkward and pale. His hipbones are a little too prominent to be the least bit sexy, and the slight hint of abs and pecs isn't enough to make it better. He’s like the scholar example of a nerd. Without the glasses. And braces. Stiles has actually never worn braces, which is always something. He doesn’t even want to start analysing his dick. Honestly. It’s like, just don’t go there, brain. 

Standing still is a bit easier this time, because he keeps sneaking glances of Derek and hopes that he doesn’t notice. At first he only looks like once every ten minutes. Then it’s down to five. After an hour or so, Stiles barely turns his gaze away at all. 

“Can I talk?” he requests, after feeling like his ears are sore from listening to charcoal strokes on thick, brown paper. 

“No.” 

“I’m going to anyway.” He ignores the death glare Derek gives him. “I’m thinking that you should change your order. You know, I’m pretty sure triple espresso will give you ulcers soon if you don’t stop. It’s strong stuff. I’m working with it you know? I know what I’m talking about. Also you should start saying thanks because it’s rude to be rude.” 

“Stiles,” Derek says and Stiles stares because Derek obviously doesn’t suffer for amnesia this time around. “Shut up.” 

Because he asks so nicely, Stiles does shut up. For fifteen good minutes, and then he’s back to pestering Derek again. He’s sure Derek loves it somewhere deep inside. 

He talks about absolutely nothing. Okay, well, quite a bit about Pokémon, because he really likes the way his current game is going and he has a whole bunch of unusual, badass Pokémon. He thinks that Derek should know about this because it should make Stiles attractive in his eyes. He’s capable of bringing home food, right? It’s like basic instincts and stuff. 

Even though Derek glares at him like he wants to kill Stiles, he’s not telling him to shut up again. Stiles thinks this is improvement. Then he just stops talking, because his eyes have found the muscles on Derek’s arms and the awesome way they flex and relax with the movements. He just wants to touch. Just once in his life. 

And then his gaze is glued to Derek’s lips and the slight curve of his cupid’s bow. They’re not as full as Stiles’, but Stiles has always been of the impression that he has a girly mouth and Derek definitely doesn’t. It looks soft and harsh at the same time. 

Stiles wants to run his fingertips along the stubble on Derek’s jaw, just to feel the rough scratch against them. He wants to rub his cheek against Derek’s, thinking it will probably sting and burn just a bit, but he wants to try how it feels. Just once. 

And Stiles wants to see Derek naked. What his stomach looks like without anything to cover it up. He doesn’t think that Derek’s hipbones are too prominent and he does think that Derek has abs. He knows for sure that Derek has pecs, because they’re visible through his tight shirts and, _oh my god,_ Stiles' fingers are itching again.

If this was porn, Derek would have thrown the easel aside hours ago and fucked Stiles on the podium in all the possible positions and probably all the impossible, lumbago-generating ones as well. Stiles doesn’t think he would mind, though. In reality, he might, but in his head, he’s all fine with whatever Derek has in store for him. 

It’s more than embarrassing to return to reality and realise that he’s on the verge of getting a little too interested in his fantasies than what’s appropriate when one’s naked. He concentrates hard on old people kissing and snakes. He’s terrified of snakes, and is _so_ relieved when he’s able to stave off the approaching situation. 

It’s almost midnight when Derek puts his charcoal down and Stiles’ muscles are shaking like crazy. He gets dressed quickly, when Derek turns away, because somehow it’s still a bit embarrassing to put clothes back on, even though he’s been standing there naked for hours. 

“Do you want me to come back?” It’s not like he hoped for much, but he’s disappointed when Derek shakes his head all the same. 

“No, I have the structure. It’s all I need to finish it on my own.” 

“Oh.” Stiles’ stomach drops. He doesn’t like the way he’s such a teenager with hormones and drama around Derek. He wants to be grown up and cool. He wants to impress. Stiles has never been good with any of those. He pulls his shirt over his head quite roughly, trying to distract his brain with a little nerve ending action. It only works about fifty per cent. “So, when’s the exhibition?” 

“There will be an ad in the paper,” Derek says curtly, like he wants Stiles to disappear already. 

Stiles doesn’t even know how it happens, but it’s like his feet have walked across the room to stand in front of Derek, way too close, on their own. And now he’s staring into Derek’s eyes, and Derek is staring back at him, and his brain is screaming at him to lean in for a kiss. Just when he’s about to, Derek takes a couple of quick steps backwards. 

Stiles jerks out of his trance-like state and blushes hard when he realises that he’s almost standing on tip-toes. He can’t really make up an excuse for this. 

“I’ll see you at the shop,” he mumbles and flees the scene. He’s wandering around the endless corridors for longer than what’s logical, but it feels better than sitting in his jeep. He’s stupid, he knows this, because he always falls heedlessly in love with people who are, one: way out of his league. Two: probably not even attracted to him. Three: seven years older than him. Four: grumpy and don’t even like him. The last two might be exclusively Derek. 

It’s like Stiles’ heart needs a lecture on how to do its job properly. He can’t deal with this. It’s like he’s doomed to be the heartbroken one forever. No, who’s being melodramatic? 

Stiles is. Stiles is always being too much of everything that one isn’t supposed to be too much of. 

He rests his forehead against the steering wheel for a while, just breathing a little, before starting the car and driving home. His dad is working the night shift, so he doesn’t have to explain why he’s coming home late and looks like he’s a depressed fourteen year old. 

It’s just not fair that Scott found Allison in high school and that they’re probably going to stick together for life, and Stiles is crushing on a grumpy artist who’s probably very straight and hates Stiles’ guts. 

He wants to be wanted by someone so bad, that it hurts just a little bit between his ribs when he goes to bed. Just a little bit. Like a pinch of guilt. Or shame. He even wants to be Jackson sometimes. The biggest asshole in the city, but he’s good looking and rich, and he’s with Lydia Martin. Stiles isn’t really any of that. It’s not that he looks bad. It’s just that he’s _average_ in every possible way. Average height. Probably a bit less than average weight. Average looks. A bit higher than average grades. It’s like plus and minus, it all evens out, and in the end, he’s just left there on zero. In the middle of everyone else. 

Stiles wonders if he should paint his eyes with eyeliner and pierce all his body parts, because he’s being so emo. Then he tells himself that it’s all right if he doesn’t tell anyone else about it. On the positive side, he’ll probably get to see Derek every morning for a while, and with time, Derek might melt to his charm. Stiles can be persistent when he needs to be. 


	2. Chapter 2

 

  
_Give me highs, give me lows,_  
 _Give me thorns with my rose_  
 _I want everything_  
 _When you laugh, when you cry,_  
 _If you're sober or high,_  
 _I want everything_  
 _Kaleidoscope – The Script_

The problem is that Derek just seems to stop existing all together after that night. At first, Stiles thinks it’s just because he works the afternoon- and evening shifts for two weeks and that Derek must have taken his word of advice, finally cutting back on his triple espressos. But then he doesn’t even show up at the usual time during the morning shift either, and Stiles starts to worry. 

It’s not that he thinks that Derek might have been in an accident or so, because he’s terrifying and if he ever got hit by a car, Stiles is pretty sure that the car would take the biggest hit. No, Stiles is more worried that Derek is avoiding him. It’s just not logical that he comes in every morning for almost the entire summer to buy coffee and then just stops right after Stiles might have made it pretty clear that he wanted to kiss Derek. Actually, he still wants to. Very badly. 

At the end of September, when it’s been like a month and a half since that evening in the art institute, Stiles sees the ad for the exhibition in the paper. It’s quite the big thing, with bright colours and cool fonts, and definitely not Derek in any way. Stiles tells himself that it isn't anyway. It’s sadly disheartening every time he realises that he doesn’t know Derek very well. Or at all.

During past few weeks, Stiles has sort of adjusted to a life where he’ll keep Googling Derek almost every night and pine in his bed for a little while before going to sleep. He’s sure that it’ll wear off eventually because now he can’t even see Derek in person, and maybe that’s going to make it easier. He still feels a bit betrayed. Derek could have said something, like _hey, actually, I’m not coming back to the shop anymore._ At the same time, Stiles feels stupid for even thinking that Derek should’ve told him. It’s not like they’re friends. 

Stiles isn’t proud over it, but a couple of weeks back he went to the art institute to make sure that Derek isn’t in fact dead. Erica Reyes had looked at him funnily and said that Derek hasn’t been there for ages because he’s done with his pieces and doesn’t need a space to work anymore. Stiles _definitely_ isn’t proud over the fact that he tried to pry at least a phone number out of her, but she just wouldn’t budge. 

He cuts the ad out from the paper – there’s a picture of Derek at the bottom – and puts it in the Harry Potter book lying on the floor next to his bed.  He tells himself that it’s just so he'll be able to prove to Scott and Isaac that he’s going to be a celebrity now, being naked on show for everyone to see. In all honesty, Stiles isn’t sure that putting it like that would ever make his friends want to come to the exhibition with him. 

They do say no. Scott has to work and Isaac is in college now, so he only works weekends and he has to study for an exam. Stiles figures that he can go alone. He’s just going to look at the pieces and doesn’t care in the least if Derek will be there in person or not. If he was Pinocchio, his nose would be as big as China right now. 

The thing is, Stiles doesn’t know how one dresses for an exhibition. Is there going to be a lot of hot shots and famous people? Or just ordinary folks like himself? His wardrobe doesn’t really contain anything but t-shirts and hoodies, and this is a problem because he’s pretty sure that his t-shirts aren't appropriate dress code for an exhibition. 

He calls Isaac in panic and maybe Isaac has a bad conscience about being a lousy friend for not offering to fail his exam to accompany Stiles to the exhibition. Or he’s just too tired of the whining that he tells Stiles that he can borrow all the button downs he wants, as long as he’s quiet doing it. That’s like telling a child that they can have all the candy they want as long as they don’t eat any until Christmas.

“Do I look stupid?” Stiles whines, where he stands in Isaac’s bedroom, staring at himself in the mirror that’s stuck to the inside of the wardrobe door. 

“Yes.” Isaac sighs heavily and doesn’t even look up from his books and notes. 

“Seriously?” Stiles taps him on the head, craving attention. 

Isaac spins around in the desk chair. He’s so fed up with Stiles' behaviour, that he doesn’t even have to say anything for Stiles to understand that he’s been stepping over every red line in the neighbourhood by now. “Stiles. I _told_ you that you could come over and use my clothes, _if_ you were quiet.” 

“I’m not sure if you’re the stupid one for ever thinking that I can be quiet, or if I’m an idiot for ever saying yes to that deal.” 

“Probably a bit of both,” Isaac sighs.

“ _Do_ I look stupid in this?” Stiles whispers theatrically, and then poses like the girls in Vogue magazine. At least that’s what he pictures in his mind. Judging by the look on Isaac’s face, he’s not even close. 

“I hate you,” Isaac mutters, before he gets up from the chair and pulls out another shirt for Stiles to wear that doesn’t look like its sleeves are too long for him. “I’m too tall for this one. Keep it.” 

Stiles thinks he’s made a big mistake when he’s in his jeep a while later. He’s wearing the white shirt and it actually kind of fits. He didn’t look right wearing one, and he hasn’t worn a white button down since his mother’s funeral, so he just put one of his red hoodies over it as well. If the picture of him is too embarrassing, he can just cover his face with the hood and run. 

That’s when he realises that not only is _he_ going to see himself naked, displayed in a big frame, but everyone else is too, and there's the possibility of someone recognising him. It's going to be a short visit, he concludes. He won't be able to look at his own painting for very long and he's really not that interested in learning what other naked people Derek has been drawing lately.

It turns out that he doesn’t really have to worry about that at all. Derek is famous. Like, _really_ famous and that’s strangely disheartening on its own. Stiles manages to get in without anyone noticing and follows the stream of people. It’s a very large room. A _very_ large room. To even think that Derek has enough pieces to fill this place makes it quite obvious why he had to drink all that espresso during the summer. 

Stiles only glances at the drawings. The first one is of a woman with all the right curves and angles and she’s really hot. The thought of Derek being in the same room as her for as many hours as Stiles was isn’t a thought he wants right now. After that, he just looks at them quickly to make sure that they’re not his piece and moves on. 

He overhears a woman saying that the artist isn’t keen on public appearances and has decided not to show up. She says something about Derek being eccentric and shy. Stiles is pretty sure that those are kind words for saying that Derek is a grumpy asshole with a phobia of social events. He didn’t even know that there could be a _real_ chance of Derek showing up and it’s probably a good thing. Stiles is sick of hoping. 

It takes a lot of time to make his way around the place. Not only because there are a lot of people, but Derek also has managed to accomplish many astounding pieces. They are even more mind-blowing in real life, up close like this, than on Google’s picture search. 

He starts thinking that maybe Derek wasn’t pleased with Stiles' modelling skills and decided not to keep the piece in the exhibition at all, when he rounds a corner and loses his breath. He shoves the string to his hood in his mouth, chewing frantically, as he stares at the drawing in front of him. It’s like looking in a mirror that makes everything ten times bigger than in reality. And makes clothes disappear.

There is Stiles. And yeah, he’s naked. It’s not like Derek has glorified him in any way. His hipbones are still too prominent and there’s not even a hint of muscle anywhere. Every single one of his moles are in the right place. Still, Stiles finds it surprisingly easy to look at himself. It’s his profile. Nothing vital or embarrassing showing or anything. His nose still has its funny curve and Derek has managed to capture his habit of always having his mouth slightly open. 

Stiles’ head is turned just a little towards the viewer, which he assumes is Derek. There’s a crinkle in the corner of his eye, like he’s just been grinning like an idiot and managed to wipe it off a moment ago. He can almost see the nervous fiddling of his own fingers, even though the picture isn’t moving. Of course it isn’t moving – it’s a _drawing._  

He hasn’t expected it to feel this way. The tightening of his throat. The way his tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth so suddenly. The way his eyes are incapable of blinking. At the same time, he feels a sudden emptiness.

When the people in front of him move on – he hasn’t even heard a word of what they’ve had to say about the piece – he inches forward. It’s even more overwhelming up close like this and he stares at himself; at the lines and smooth strokes of his face, his lashes, his skinny arms. It’s weird to think that he’s kind of beautiful like this. Not in like the Brad Pitt way. But it’s something there. Maybe. It looks like picture-Stiles is going to move any second. 

His eyes flicker to the bottom of the drawing, and he isn’t sure if he’s supposed to laugh or cry a little when he sees the title of the drawing. _Thanks_. In the end, he does neither. Derek has a weird sense of humour and Stiles wants to laugh, but it sort of gets stuck in his throat on its way out. It’s comforting in a weird way that he listened to Stiles rambling that night, about not drinking that many triple espressos, and that he was being rude for not saying thanks. Stiles thinks a drawing like this kind of makes up for it. 

He is forced to leave when people starts crowding around him, trying to get a glimpse of the picture. He doesn’t want them to recognise him, even if he wants to stick around just to hear what they make of the picture. 

It’s strange. It’s like the picture put an end to his summer and to his (not very) innocent crush on Derek. It now feels like a full blown _I’m sure you’re my soulmate_ -state. The thing is, he’s probably never going to see Derek again, because the guy seems to have disappeared from the face of the Earth. 

Going to the exhibition might not have been the best of Stiles’ ideas. He has been hoping for a closure, which is lame, because who needs a closure for something like this? Now it just feels more like he’s reopened an old wound. 

* * *

Five days later, his dad slaps down the newspaper on the kitchen table in front of him and there’s a picture of Stiles’ drawing, under the headline: _Derek Hale makes his dent in the history of art._

“Care to explain?” his dad says and Stiles flails, searching for words. 

“Yeah, well, I did some naked modelling there for a while.” 

“Yes, I can tell.” His dad nods to the picture in the paper, and Stiles tries not to look at it because he can’t deal with it. 

“That’s pretty much all the explaining I can do.” Not really. There are a whole lot of explanations possible for why he offered, why he followed through, why he dropped out and then came back, why the picture is named _Thanks_. Why Stiles’ heart cracks a little every time he thinks about it. 

“Stiles,” his dad says and he sounds serious. “Derek Hale?” 

“What? I just stood there naked and he drew me, and it’s _not like we’re dating, dad.”_ If it was up to Stiles, though, they would be. 

“Good, because he’s too old for you.” 

“Oh my god, it’s just seven years!” Stiles protests immediately, but falls silent when his dad glares at him. “It’s not like I was the only one doing it. There are a lot of pictures of naked people in that exhibition.” 

“Yeah, but they only talk about yours,” his dad says, like Stiles knows this already, and taps his fingers against the article. 

Stiles tries to grab the paper, to read it, but his dad slaps his hand down all over it, covering the words. 

“You sure there’s nothing going on between you and this Derek Hale?” 

“Yes, dad,” Stiles sighs and rolls his eyes. 

“All right,” his dad replies slowly and eyes him like he tries to determine if Stiles is lying or not. “I might have to take a look at the piece then.” 

Stiles stares at him, because _hello,_ his dad is as interested in art as he is in eating healthy. 

* * *

Stiles doesn’t have any words when he’s read the article. They call it a masterpiece. They call it a private moment of the artist’s soul. They say that it’s got to be someone special, because of the way the piece keeps all of his goodies hidden, but _the playful look in the lover’s eyes says enough_. He doesn't even know when so many cheesy lines started sounding so right to him. 

A part of him wants to say that someone finally has seen what Stiles has known since the first time he saw Derek. Another part wants to send an angry letter and tell them to shut up, because it hurts and they don’t know _anything_. The majority of him wants to find Derek to simultaneously hit him in the face and kiss him. He feels a bit torn right now. 

Isaac calls him an hour later. He’s half hysterical because he’s seen the paper, too. And he says things like _I thought you were making shit up_ and _You_ were _actually naked_ with _him._ Forty minutes later, Scott calls too. He has an approach closer to _What the fuck man, why didn’t you tell me you had sex with the guy?_ He keeps it up until Stiles actually shouts at him that, as much as he wanted that to happen, he didn’t even get as much as a kiss. Then Scott is silent for a long, long time, before he says: “It really sucks to be you, man.” 

Like Stiles didn’t know that one already. 

The biggest surprise is when Danny calls a few days later, and Stiles can hear the smug smile in his voice. “So is he someone special?” 

“Oh my god,” Stiles hisses, because he’s at work and it’s embarrassing, even though the place is empty. “No.”

“Sure looks like it.” 

“I mean, it’s only special on my part,” Stiles admits almost instantly. He really needs to work on his ability to resist telling people everything.

“That’s like the story of your life, Stiles,” Danny laughs, but it doesn’t sound the least bit mean. Danny is probably the only person in the world who can manage that.

“Yeah.” Stiles nods to the phone, glancing around to make sure that no one walks in on him talking about _Derek._ Some customers already ask him about it. Others just look at him freakily. Stiles suspects that it's because they know what his butt looks like. It’s weird. 

“So, I talked to Scott and Isaac. We’re thinking we should do something on Friday, you in?” 

Of course Stiles is in. He needs all the distractions he can get right now. _All of them_. 

* * *

Friday arrives with rain, but they still fake ID their way into a bar, where Stiles drinks way too much and rants on and on and on about Derek and his charcoals and his scowl. No one complains, which is unusual for his friends. Maybe they’ve finally realised how heartbroken he is. He should change his name to Stiles Forever Alone Stilinski. 

It’s not until they’re about to head back home, already wobbling his way down the street, that his world gets turned upside down. He’s lost his friends somewhere on his way to the car, but he doesn’t care much because he knows where it’s parked. Just as he’s about to cross the street, praying that his dad isn’t patrolling – that would definitely guarantee him at least a year of being grounded – he sees Derek Hale. Derek fucking Hale who draws naked pictures of people, Stiles in particular, standing a few feet away from him. 

Stiles stops dead in his track, one foot hanging just above the ground, in the middle of a step. He’s a bit proud of his capability to balance on one foot, honestly. 

Derek is alone. When _isn’t_ Derek alone, by the way? 

Stiles stares at him and Derek stares back. It’s like Stiles has caught him doing something illegal. 

He starts swaying on his one foot and almost topples over, before he gets the idea to put his other foot down. When he looks up, Derek has taken a step closer to him, hand half-stretched out towards him, like he’s been preparing to catch Stiles in his fall. 

“Stiles.” Derek says it like a warning, like he’s something bad, bad, bad. 

“Derek,” Stiles slurs and makes a little bow because Derek is like royalty among artists. 

“You’re drunk.” 

Stiles grins, nods. “Oh my god, so drunk.” 

“Are you alone?” 

“Nope, nope. I have friends.” Stiles flails, points in every direction to indicate that he doesn’t exactly know where they are, but they’re around here, somewhere. 

“You should go find them and go home,” Derek tells him. He’s still standing too far away for Stiles’ liking. It’s like a safety distance. Like a rule that if he’s five feet away, Stiles won’t try to kiss him.

“I was at the exhibition,” Stiles says, except that he thinks he says another word instead of exhibition. It sounds more like expedition, but Derek nods like he understands. He’s _so_ understanding. 

“I saw the painting,” he elaborates because he wants Derek to talk again. He likes it when Derek talks. 

Derek nods again. 

Stiles stares at him, tries to ask all the questions with mental powers and Derek stares back, like he wonders what the fuck Stiles is doing. 

“What did you think?” Derek asks finally, sounding stiff, when Stiles has been squinting at him forever. 

“It’s okay,” Stiles offers. It isn’t like Derek’s generous with compliments, so he’s not going to be either. 

“Okay,” Derek nods. 

Stiles suddenly hates it when Derek nods. It’s not even a real nod. It’s just one tip back with his head, and then a drop forward. Just once. Not several times. Just once. Stiles wants to shake him. 

“You’re not buying coffee anymore,” he points out. 

“No,” Derek agrees and Stiles wants him to elaborate on his own, explain why he isn’t coming around anymore, if it’s Stiles fault, if he’s just tired of coffee, if he’s just angry with the world or only Stiles. 

“Why?” 

“You told me to cut back.” Derek looks like he isn’t going to say anything else, but Stiles glares so fiercely at him and maybe that's why he continues, a little reluctantly: “And I’m finished with my project.” 

“Then start a new one.” 

For a moment, Stiles is sure that Derek’s mouth tugs upwards at the corners, just a little bit, but then he’s back to scowling in seconds. 

“It’s not really that easy.” 

“I can help. I’m a natural when it comes to brainstorming and ideas and _art_.” Stiles doesn’t know anything about any of those. 

“It’s probably not a good idea.” 

“Because I wanted to kiss you?” It just sort of slips out and Stiles flails, claps his hand over his mouth, trying to push the words back in. 

Derek blinks at him once and then looks away. “That, too.” 

“It’s the story of my life,” Stiles wails dramatically. He’s so going to regret all of this in the morning. He's even uncooler drunk than sober, which is a depressing thought. Some people probably think that it's impossible. 

Derek doesn’t reply. He looks like he’s in pain because Stiles is being such an idiot. 

“Where do you live?” Stiles asks instead. 

“What?”

“I need to know where you live so I can come by, brainstorming.” He wiggles his hands on either side of his face, trying to portray the whole concept of brainstorming. 

Derek sighs, looks at him for a long time. “Stiles, this isn’t a good idea.” 

“Isaac told me you lied,” Stiles says, changing the subject again because, nuh-uh, he’s not getting rejected. 

Derek looks at him like he’s not following. Stiles doesn’t mind elaborating. 

“He said you already knew my name. You just _lied_. That’s such a bad thing to do. I was really upset. You shouldn’t lie to people, Derek.” 

“Okay,” Derek says and looks at him intently. 

“Plus, you’re rude. You can’t be rude _and_ lie.” 

“I said thanks.” 

“No dude, you named a painting of me naked to _Thanks._ Everyone probably thinks it was about sex!” 

“You’re an idiot,” Derek says suddenly and Stiles stops flailing in shock. 

“Yeah,” he agrees. “You’re a liar.”

“Yeah,” Derek agrees.

“And rude.”

“Yeah.”

“And you’ve seen my dick.” Stiles whispers the last word, and Derek rolls his eyes. 

“Yeah.” 

“My dad probably thinks you’re a paedophile.” 

Derek doesn’t answer. Pity. 

Someone calls his name and Stiles jerks back to reality. It's Scott. He doesn't like the idea of Scott bothering him now. He needs to grab a hold of Derek before he disappears again. He needs to make sure that he has a place in Derek's life again. 

“I'll come by tomorrow, brainstorming.” Stiles wiggles his hands again. He isn't completely sure if Derek understands what he's trying to portray and he's scared because he just made a bold statement and it would be so easy for Derek to reject him now. 

It's weird because, no matter how many times he has gotten rejected in his life, he doesn't seem to ever stop being afraid of it. 

Derek looks at him so intently that Stiles blushes. He's afraid of blinking and stares back until his eyes go to dry and start tearing up. He blinks once, ready to continue the staring contest when he sees Derek doing his lame excuse for a nod. He doesn't say anything, but the nod is enough for Stiles to turn around and hurry towards Scott's voice. If he stays, Derek has the possibility to change his mind. Stiles doesn't want that to happen. 

“Who were you talking to?” Scott asks, when Stiles stops in front of him. He looks a little worried.

“That's Derek.” Stiles glances back over his shoulder, but Derek has already disappeared in the opposite direction. 

“ _Really?_ He looks like a criminal.” Scott cranes his neck, like he tries to catch another glimpse of Derek over Stiles shoulder. 

“Yeah,” Stiles agrees breathlessly, because that's why his whole body seems to tingle whenever he's around Derek. It's kind of a little dangerous. “I'm going to his place tomorrow.” 

“What? Why? _How?_ Wow.” Scott grabs his arm and drags him along towards the car. It's a good thing that Danny is driving. 

“Help him brainstorm about his new project.” Stiles shrugs like this isn't a big deal, but inside he's a five year old girl, running around the house screaming. 

“Where does he live?” Scott is wide-eyed, like he can't believe it. No one can blame him, really. 

“I have no idea.” 

“Dude,” Scott says, the excitement on his face falling quickly. 

“Dude,” Stiles echoes. “What do you think I have a dad that's the sheriff for? Everyone's address is in his computer. I just need to go there and use it when he's out.” 

“I'm pretty sure that isn't legal, Stiles,” Danny points out when they stop in front of him. 

“Actually, I've read that everything is fair in love and war.” 

Danny and Scott roll their eyes at him simultaneously. 

“And which one is this?” Isaac asks. 

“Not sure yet.” Except that he is. 

* * *

Stiles hates himself the following morning. Not only because his head is aching every time he tries to move even a toe and he's extremely nauseous, but because he remembers his conversation with Derek very, very clearly. 

He wants to _not_ show up because it wouldn't be weird if he didn't remember even meeting Derek, but at the same time this could be his only chance. It even took him forever to convince Derek to not say no in a state where all his inhibitions were missing. Stiles won't get an opportunity like this again. 

It takes over an hour before he even dares to try and stand up. It's not like he can call his dad and ask him to come with some painkillers, because Stiles isn't twenty-one and he very much likes to keep his head. He's not sure if Derek would want him without a head, and that's not even meant as a sexual innuendo. 

He hopes that his dad is too busy with work, or that he's not even in, when he drives to the station. At least he's clean and smells kind of nice, because he's used maybe-too-much of the cologne Lydia gave him for his birthday for once. Stiles never uses cologne. But it's Derek, right? It's not like Stiles has been overly successful before, so smelling nice probably won't salt his game. 

It's like all the gods in the world smiles at Stiles today, because his dad is out and no one even questions when Stiles props himself down in the very comfy desk chair. Stiles has wheeled around it too much in his days, but it's like his ass refuses to get out of it and he usually wheels around the station, dragging both him and the chair forward with his feet, whenever he needs to talk to someone.

The fact that he knows exactly what he's doing when he clicks a few buttons and enters Derek's name could be something the police department in Beacon Hills should be worried about. He doesn't really have time to worry about that though, when he finds Derek's file. And Stiles just can't let the opportunity fly by. 

In about two minutes, Stiles knows where Derek lives, that Derek has been the suspect of arson and killing his whole family by burning them alive, but was cleared when his ex-girlfriend proved to be guilty. Stiles kind of understands why Derek never smiles now. 

For some reason, it feels wrong knowing. Derek has never told him this. It's not like Derek has told him anything about himself really. Everything Stiles knows, he's found out himself by snooping and doing things that probably borders to stalking. He has a hard time believing that Derek would ever be okay with him knowing this. 

Before he leaves the computer (the history deleted) he grabs a notepad from his dad's desk and a pen, realising that it might look a bit suspicious if he drops by to brainstorm but has nothing with him. Except for a couple of condoms in his wallet, because Stiles has been told that they can dry out and break if he puts them directly into his pocket. Also, if his dad knew this, he would be dead. Going to Derek Hale with condoms in his wallet. It's not like he's hoping for anything, he just wants to be _safe_. Okay, maybe there’s a bit of hope.

It doesn't take very long to drive to Derek's house, even though it's in the middle of nowhere. The road isn't much of a road as much as it is a trail with roots and boulders. Stiles is so very grateful that his baby is a jeep and not Edward Cullen's crappy Volvo. It would never have survived. 

The house looks like an old mansion. Stiles recognises it from the pictures he's seen in the police folder (the digital one, thanks to Danny), but that was ten years ago and it was a smouldering, burnt-out house in them. This is a completely whole, at least by the look of the exterior, white house with a ceiling that is in its actual place. Just by the front porch, a black Chevrolet Camaro is parked. Stiles feels a bit stupid in his jeep as he parks it on a safe no-scratching-paint-distance from Derek's. 

Somehow, the anxiety hasn't really picked up on him until now. Sure, he was a little worried before, but now he's almost as nauseous as he was this morning. What if Derek isn't even home? What if Derek _is_ home but tells Stiles to go away? Maybe he should. Stiles shakes his head and walks up to the front door before he has the chance to change his mind. If he gets rejected, it's not like he's running into Derek constantly in his life anyway. And next year he's going to college. It's going to be okay either way. 

The sound of the doorbell echoes through the house so loudly that Stiles can hear it through the door. He glances around, making sure that no one’s coming up behind him to stab him in the back, or that Derek is standing behind a shed somewhere, watching him. Honestly, he wouldn't put that past Derek, because he's Creeper McCreepy all days of the week. 

Time passes slowly, and Stiles starts thinking about leaving or breaking in through a window somewhere, thinking that at least one of a hundred windows of the house would be open. But then he hears the sound of footsteps on the other side of the door. He takes a step back, just as it swings open in front of him. 

Stiles can't really breathe. Derek doesn't have a shirt on. Stiles knows he's staring, but he doesn't care. Derek is perfect and Stiles isn't just saying that because he's a horny teenager who hasn't seen a real man without a shirt, if he's not supposed to count internet porn, in that case he's seen many. He balls his hands into fists not to reach out and touch the smooth planes of Derek's stomach, or the muscled ripples over his ribs. His gaze is glued to the faint trail of hair that disappears into the waistband of Derek's jeans. Oh god – and his chest. Okay, Stiles definitely likes his men with muscles. 

He doesn't look away until Derek clears his throat, because it's not like he has any idea of when he's ever going to see something like this up close again. 

“Brainstorming!” Stiles flails his hands out, showing the notepad and the pen like they're master weapons. 

“Stiles.” Derek says it like it's something bad again. Stiles doesn't like when Derek says his name like it's an abomination. He has a lot of ideas of how he would probably like to hear his name being said though, neither of them are appropriate.

“What? You didn't say no! Suit yourself. I'm here. What are you going to do? Kick me out?” 

“Technically you're not even in,” Derek says and he looks like he's really contemplating closing the door and leaving Stiles on the other side. 

It's a little surprising that his stomach drops again, along with his shoulders. At least Stiles can give himself an A for effort. “Okay, whatever man.” 

He's already half-way to his jeep, when Derek says his name again. It doesn't sound quite as bad this time. At first, he thinks it's an apology and looks over his shoulder with his brave face on, so that Derek will think that everything's just okay and that Stiles isn't already heedlessly in love with him, even though they don't know each other. Derek takes a step to the side in the doorway. He doesn't say anything, but the tired look on his face tells Stiles that not even Derek is immune to his charm. He almost sprints back and hurries past Derek in the doorway to prevent him from changing his mind. 

Derek disappears, leaving Stiles standing just inside the front door, and when he comes back, he has a shirt on. Stiles doesn't approve, but he feels like he shouldn't be pushing his luck right now. He sways back and forth on his feet a bit and drums the pen against the notepad to keep himself from rambling endlessly. He glances around whenever Derek looks the other way, but he always feels caught when he finds Derek watching him. He's led into a kitchen that is a lot nicer than Stiles thought it would be. By the looks of it, he's convinced that Derek is a vampire and doesn't eat, because hell – the place is spotless. 

“So?” 

For a moment, Stiles doesn't know what Derek's talking about, and then he starts flailing out of embarrassment. Brainstorming! 

“Right! Right! Sorry I forgot! I was just rejected you know, on the front porch, so I was shutting down the side of my brain where I keep my brainstorming skills so I was like _what is he talking about_ , but now I'm with you, man!” Stiles props himself on the kitchen counter, dangling his legs just a bit because he can, and then sits down on his hands to stop himself from flailing. The looks he gets from Derek whenever he does, makes it pretty clear that he doesn't find it all that charming. 

Stiles has the time to think that this would be perfect for kissing if only Derek stood between his legs and was totally into him, but then Derek gives him that look again and Stiles almost bangs his head in the cabinet behind him. “ _Right_ , so brainstorming! Awesome! I was thinking, what _can_ you do? Like what are you good at? That's probably where we should start.” 

Derek makes a pained face. “I thought you said you were good at this.” 

“I never said compared to whom.” Stiles bites his fingernails and looks at Derek through his lashes. It doesn't seem to make Derek melt. Damn. 

“How did you find my address?” Derek asks instead, like he feels like it's better to change subject than keep this conversation going. 

“My dad's the sheriff,” Stiles says and lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “It has its perks.” 

“Apparently. If you're a stalker.” 

“Not you too,” Stiles groans and lets his head fall back against the cabined with a loud thump. 

Derek gives him a weird look, and yeah, Stiles will give him that it really sounds bad. 

“My friends said the same thing when I told them.” 

Derek keeps looking at him funnily. 

“Maybe it's just a bit empty at work without you coming in to buy yourself a new ulcer every day,” he says finally, too loudly. It's embarrassing. 

“You think I'm rude,” Derek points out. 

“Yeah, well, rude has its charm too, apparently.” _And sexy abs,_ Stiles adds to himself. He's definitely not saying that out loud. 

Derek is silent for a long time and Stiles refuses to say anything else, because he has already given away too much. He could only make things even clearer for Derek by lying down and spread his legs and shout that his body is ready. Stiles actually has _some_ boundaries.

“I mostly do charcoal. Oil on occasion. I rarely sculpt, but I'm good at it,” he says so suddenly that Stiles _actually_ falls off the cabinet. Thankfully he lands on his feet, but it doesn't look all that graceful. 

“Yeah? So like, are you only into your art-porn?” he blurts as he hoists himself up again. 

Derek gives him a displeased look. “It's a celebration of the human body.” 

“Dude, it shows boobs and dicks and everything. Va-jay-jays too. It's porn.” 

Derek rolls his eyes. “Are you here to flame my work or brainstorm?” And it comes as a shock to Stiles when Derek actually mimics his flailing hands on both sides of his head. 

He's convinced that Derek loves him now. 

“It's porn. Ergo, I love your work.” 

Derek snorts. _Snorts_. This is like a day of wonders. 

“I was thinking something, now when we're talking about your porn,” Stiles says and can't help but grin when Derek glares. “Why is mine the only one that wasn't showing? Not that I'm not happy, you know, because my dad would kill me, but like, _should I be worried_?” 

“No, it just didn't fit your piece.” 

“Flattery,” Stiles says airily and Derek looks like he's ready to run into the nearest wall. 

“You know what I mean.” 

“Not really, because I don't speak art, but whatever.” Stiles cranes his neck to look around the kitchen. “So, do you live here alone?” 

Trick question. Stiles already knows that Derek lives here alone. 

“Yeah.” 

“Doesn't it get lonely?” 

“I like being alone.” 

“No shocker there,” Stiles mumbles to himself and then looks Derek straight in the eye. He almost feels like he's going to fall off the counter again. Stiles has been in love with Lydia Martin for a huge part of his life, but pining after her was never really anything close to this. He never got this feeling like someone punched him in his stomach, and the way his muscles now tighten so harshly that he has to gulp in a deep breath so loudly it echoes in the room. Derek's eyes are bright and intense. Stiles wonders if Derek is reading his mind, or just trying to make Stiles' pants drop with mind-powers. Actually, Stiles is very willing to help with that last bit. He can lose his virginity on a kitchen counter. That would be cool. If it's with Derek. 

“Stiles,” Derek says quietly, but he doesn't have to speak loud for Stiles to listen. “What are you really doing here?” 

At first, he thinks about rambling about brainstorming and how Derek needs to think about his future and nurture his fame. Then he just gives up, because it isn't like Derek doesn't already know what Stiles might not have said out loud, but he has already admitted that he wanted to kiss Derek. He might just throw the cards on the table right away. If he's anything like James Bond, he'll win anyway. 

“You already know why,” he answers, chickening out. 

Derek actually growls like he's angry and Stiles flinches just a bit at the sound. 

“It isn't going to happen.” He says it so easily, like it's not something that will break Stiles’ heart. 

There are a thousand replies running through Stiles' brain like crazy. Some of them are angry. Some of them are accompanied by tears. Others are just plain defeat. “Don't say that,” he manages at last and doesn't even have it in him to feel embarrassed about the weakness in his voice. He picks his phone out and sets it into spin after spin on the counter. He needs the distraction not to think about the way his throat now is tight and how hard it is to swallow. 

“Why not? It's true.” Derek's voice isn't rough, but it still feels like a slap in the face.

Stiles’ throat hurts like it's made of sandpaper. He looks away, doesn't answer. With Lydia it was easier, because Stiles could always tell himself that she was with Jackson and that it's impossible to compete with all that good looks and money. And that Porsche. But as far as Stiles knows, Derek isn't with anyone, and somehow it's just _a lot_ harder to accept the fact that he's not more wanted than being _alone_. 

“Because it hurts.” It just slips out and he isn't even sure if Derek knows what he's talking about, because the last few words has been on a roller-coaster ride in Stiles' head over and over and over the past minute or so, but Derek might already be thinking about what he's going to eat for dinner. 

“You're eighteen, Stiles. _You don't even know me_.” 

He says the last part like it's a good reason not to be in love with someone. Stiles doesn't agree, really. Derek might have a point, but it's not like Stiles' brain or body wants to do as they’re told anyway. 

“I don't care,” he whispers and it's even worse than when his father told him off for running around at a crime scene with Scott. His shoulders are slumping and head hanging low. He doesn't want to look Derek in the eye, because he's afraid and honestly, he's never been rejected like this before. Lydia just told him that he was a nice guy, and that he was all cute, but that she was in love with Jackson. Plus, he already knew that even before she told him. With Derek there was still stupid, stupid hope. 

“I care,” Derek snaps suddenly. His patience has run out, apparently. “You're just a kid, Stiles. You know nothing about life or what you want from it. You talk too much, you're annoying, you say anything that pops up in your head. I only came by to buy coffee because I was working day and night at the institute to finish in time for the exhibition. I only let you model for me because I didn't have anyone else. Yeah, I lied to you, because I didn't want you to think that I care even _remotely_ about your name. You're just some kid with some hyperactive disorder that got the idea to be in love with me. You're not. Now get the fuck out.” 

Stiles gets this weird feeling spreading over his skin, like a million ants are crawling over him, and his throat hurts. Everything hurts. Everywhere. He isn't even sure if he's going to cry or if he's just really angry. Fine, he can take that Derek doesn't want him. But this isn't just rejection. It's humiliation and not even Stiles deserves that. 

He just drops down to the floor and walks out of there. Looking Derek in the face is out of the question. He just wants to get home. To be alone. To curl up in his bed and pretend that this never happened. He was stupid to ever think that he could deal with this. That Derek of all fucking people would kind of like him back. The worst part is that everything Derek said is true. Stiles knows he's annoying. It's like who he is. It's just that no one has ever said it like this to his face before, not like it's something disgusting. Scott tells him with affection, and so does his dad, but Stiles can deal with that. It's not like they have a choice but to love him anyways. 

He slams the door shut behind him and hopes that at least one painting falls down from the wall and crashes to the floor. With his luck, they probably didn't even rattle on their pins. 

Stiles still can't breathe when he's in his jeep. The feeling of someone strapping an iron belt around his ribcage and pulling is frightening. He knows what's coming. He knows so well how his lungs will feel like they're filling with water and that he will try to breathe, but fail. It's all coming now, when he's in Derek's yard. Right after the rejection of his life. Stiles really is a joke. He can't even leave the place with some of his dignity still intact. 

He curses his dad for teaching him everything about safe driving. Even though he wants to, Stiles isn't going to try and drive home with a panic attack coming. Instead, he curls up in his seat, shields his face in his arms and tries to breathe in his created darkness. His fingers are contracting compulsively, and he squeezes his eyes shut. He tries to tell himself that it's not the right place, or time for this. But with every failed, gasping breath that rasps through his throat, he just remembers the other times he's been like this more clearly. It feels like such a long time ago, just after his mother died. Almost every day he would feel his lungs trapped in his own body, like he was suffocating himself or by his grief. 

He holds on to the steering wheel tightly and he wants to roll the window down to get air, because there's _no damn air in here_ , but he tries to focus on his breathing, tries very hard not to think about Derek's words and how much they hurt. He'll deal with that later, but not now. Now he needs to breathe. 

He doesn't even hear the car door open. Suddenly there are just strong hands grabbing him, turning his head so that he's staring straight at Derek, who's a little fuzzy around the edges. Stiles tries to swat him away and pry the hands off of him, but Derek's hand curls around his cheek and forces him to focus on the way Derek's mouth is moving. 

“Stiles,” Derek says, his voice finally making it through the whooshing sound in Stiles' ears. 

Stiles tries to swat him away again. 

The next moment, Stiles is dragged out of the car and pushed down on the porch stairs. It's hard to concentrate on breathing, when Derek's crouching down in front of him and looks so worried that Stiles wants to laugh. 

“Stiles, you need to breathe,” Derek says, and his voice sounds weird and distant. Stiles just has the time to think that it's usually a bad sign, before he blacks out. 

* * *

He is disoriented for a moment when he opens his eyes, because he doesn't recognise that coffee table or the fabric of the couch he's lying on. Then all the memories comes back in a whoosh and makes him bolt upright so fast, that he goes blind for a moment from the blood rush. 

“You should lie down,” Derek's voice says and when Stiles can finally see again, he finds him sitting on a footstool a few feet away. Stiles wants to point out that Derek doesn't come off as a person who owns a footstool, or a really sleek couch in dark grey either, for that matter. 

“I should leave,” Stiles croaks, because hell no, he isn't taking another rejection today. He gets confused when he notices his phone lying on the table, on top of the notepad and next to the pencil he brought. 

“You forgot them,” Derek explains, following Stiles' gaze. “Does this happen a lot?” 

Stiles smiles bitterly. “Rejection is like my part time job.” 

Derek rolls his eyes, but he doesn't look as grumpy as he usually does. “The panic attacks. Do you get them a lot?”

“Not anymore,” Stiles mutters, because he doesn't want to have this conversation. 

“Except for today,” Derek points out. 

“Yeah.” Stiles makes an attempt to stand up, but Derek holds out a hand as if to stop him. 

“I shouldn't have said that. It was out of line.” 

“It doesn't matter.” 

“Yeah, it does, Stiles. I didn't mean to-” _hurt you,_ Stiles adds mentally as Derek trails off. 

“Yeah you did,” he mutters, because hello, no one says stuff like that without aiming for something. Derek opens his mouth as if to say something, but Stiles hurries to continue. “I get it, you know. It's all true. I’m hyperactive and I'm probably the most annoying idiot to walk around this town. It's not like I don't know that. I already know that I talk too much and that I don't have a filter. I just didn't need you to tell me that, too.” 

Stiles hates his voice for wavering. It doesn't make his _I'm strong and I can take this-_ speech as impressive as he aimed for it to be. 

“You should've just left me in the car, and I'd be gone already,” he mutters and walks out of there for the second time that day. At least, this time he doesn't get a panic-attack when he sits down in his car and is able to drive all the way home. 

Of course, Stiles being Stiles, he doesn't notice until he's going to set the alarm for his morning shift the following day that he forgot the notepad, pen and _phone_ at Derek's. 

“Well, this is fucking great,” he mumbles to himself, as he digs through the house hunting for a real, old-fashioned alarm-clock. 

* * *

Stiles wakes up twenty minutes later than he aimed for, because it's apparently impossible to set an exact alarm on a watch that has hands instead of digital numbers. He makes it to work on time anyway, but just barely, and he hasn't had time to eat breakfast. At least that's one of the perks with working in a coffee shop. No one's around during the early hours anyway, so Stiles drinks a lot of coffee and eats a couple of croissants for breakfast. It's nice. Maybe he should oversleep more often. 

He thinks this day could turn out quite good after all, if it wasn't for the fact that the bell tinkles in a very familiar way at five-forty five on the dot. Stiles only just resists the urge to lay his head down on the counter and whine. 

“Triple espresso?” he says tiredly as Derek walks up to the counter. He looks a little hesitant. 

“Okay.” 

There's a tense silence between them when Stiles prepares the so scarily familiar order. It's like his hands know what to do all on their own. Derek accepts the cup when Stiles pushes it across the counter, and there's already money lying there, like always. But he doesn't leave, much unlike all the other times. 

“What do you want?” Stiles snaps then. For the love of god, he doesn't need to get humiliated at work too. 

“I just came by to give these back to you. You forgot them. Again.” 

And there's Stiles phone, and the notepad and pen he stole from his dad's desk. In Derek's hand.

“I know.” 

“Then why are you surprised I'm here?” 

“I figured I'd get myself a new one,” Stiles shrugged. “Don't worry, I wasn't going to pay you another visit.” 

“Stiles,” Derek sighs like he's very tired. “I didn't mean what I said.” 

“We've already been over this, Derek. Yeah, you did. If you don't mind, I have other customers to attend to.” 

Derek looks around with a frown in the very, very empty coffee shop. “Who?”

“They might come in soon,” Stiles mutters and Derek rolls his eyes. 

“Stiles.”

“Yes, oh my god, Derek, what do you _want_?” 

“You're eighteen.” 

“I know that. It's my age, after all.” 

“And you don't know me.” 

“Fine. But maybe I want to.” 

“You're an idiot.” 

“You've said that too. I know you're an old man and all, but honestly, you've got to become a little more inventive.” 

Derek's mouth tugs upwards in one corner. Stiles’ traitor-heart flips. 

“I'm sorry for what I said, Stiles.” Derek grows serious in an instant, but Stiles’ heart still keeps flipping like there's a crack in the record and now it’s stuck on repeat. 

Stiles looks down and concentrates on picking at a stain on the counter. It should go away with a bit of determination. 

“I'm not used to people.” 

Stiles makes a weird laugh. No surprise there. It's just that he has _no idea_ where this is leading. 

“I could use help with brainstorming, though.” 

Stiles' head snaps up so hard, that he's sure he just got himself a whiplash. Does that mean? Yes. Yes. Yes!

“I could come by later,” he says casually (well not really) when Derek doesn't seem to want to say anything else. “Like after work.” 

“I'm busy today,” Derek says evasively and looks away.

Stiles wants to sing Katy Perry's _Hot n Cold_ to make sure that Derek knows how confusing he is. 

“Day after tomorrow, though?” he suggests, just as Stiles is about to sigh. 

“Just to make this clear: the movie or the actual day after tomorrow?” 

“The actual day,” Derek sighs like he's already regretting this. 

“Okay, yeah, sure. That works.” Stiles really can't play hard to get. “I'm off at five. Should I bring food? I can pick up food on the way. Do you like Chinese? Or are you one of those people who get a really bad stomach from Chinese food, because in that case I'll pick something else. Like tacos? Do you eat tacos? Or are you one of those people who prefer like steak and potatoes?” 

Derek definitely looks like he's changing his mind right now. 

“Okay, I'm shutting up,” Stiles whispers and mimics zipping his mouth closed. 

“Chinese works,” Derek says before he turns around and leaves. 

Stiles’ heart has a hard time trying to decide if it's going to stop or race, so it just keeps on kick-starting in his chest over and over again, every time he thinks back at the conversation during the day. 

* * *

Tuesday can't arrive fast enough for Stiles’ liking, but then it's suddenly there and he manages to endure long hours of work with Isaac, who’s almost as excited about this as Stiles, for some weird reason. Isaac usually isn't the one to get excited. 

“It's not that way,” Stiles tries, because if he gives everyone else hope, he's going to give himself more of that than he already has. 

“Yeah, I'm sure that's why you have condoms in your wallet,” Isaac snorts.

Oh, crap, the condoms. Stiles had forgotten about those. 

“It's just a safety precaution. I don't even know if he's into guys.”

“Shouldn't he have used that as a good reason for blowing you off the first time? Instead of all the insults. Feels like it would've been way more effective.” 

That's true, Stiles thinks. There's a surge in his stomach and he suddenly can't stop thinking about the condoms. 

“Maybe he's really good in bed,” Stiles says dreamily and leans against the coffee machine. It makes a weird sound and spits a few drops of coffee. Stiles isn't sure how to interpret that. 

“It's not like I would know, Stiles,” Isaac answers and it's kind of clear in his voice that he doesn't want to talk about this, but Stiles ignores it. 

“I've just kissed one person! What if he expects me to be really good at blowjobs? I mean I've watched porn, like _a lot_ of porn, but I don't think I'm physically capable of doing that. You know. _That._ ” Stiles isn't sure what he's trying to explain, but Isaac looks like he's in so much pain that Stiles can't force his luck anymore. 

“Just tell him you're a virgin.” 

“Oh my god, can you say it any louder?!” 

And Isaac does. He shouts it actually. Stiles would've killed him if there wasn't a middle-aged woman entering the shop just then, so he resolves to laugh hysterically. “He's just joking.” 

He's halfway scared to death when he picks up the Chinese food and drives over to Derek’s. He has all these mental pictures of Derek ordering him to do things and Stiles won’t know what to do. It turns out that the only thing Derek orders him to actually do is set the table. 

Stiles can live with that. He's weirdly disappointed at the same time. 

“So I was thinking, now you've done an appreciation of grown-ups bodies. Maybe you should like do children now.” 

Derek stares at him like he’s mental for a long time before Stiles’ brain actually clicks. “Oh right, yeah, no that's a bad idea. My dad would just _really_ think you're a paedophile then.” 

“Yeah.” 

“And you're not, right?” 

When Derek looks like he's going to ask Stiles to leave again, Stiles just flings his hands up in the air and hunches his shoulders. “I was joking!” 

“It wasn’t funny.” 

“That’s because you don’t have humour. It’s like you’re allergic to smiling.” 

“Stiles. Brainstorming.” 

“Right. So not children, because that’s _illegal_.” Stiles is quiet for a long time. “Honestly I don’t know anything about art.” 

“Yeah, I know.” 

“And you still keep me? It’s like you have a heart in there.” Stiles pokes Derek playfully in the chest, but then he gets one of these glares and he hastily pulls it back. “I’m taking my hand off.” 

Derek just shakes his head. Stiles can kind of understand him. 

“Actually I’ve seen an artist that makes whole exhibitions from paintings of lady parts. Maybe you could do that, but with dicks.” 

“No.”

“Yeah, thinking about it, that might have been Sex and the City. You know Charlotte, she got hers painted and it was so weird and all her friends went to the exhibition. Awkward, right? I kind of know how she feels, because my friends have been checking out my painting too.” 

“Okay.”

“Actually my dad went to see it too. He was a little angry that I didn’t tell him that I went to an old guy and let him draw me naked, but that he had to find out through an article in the paper.” 

“You didn’t tell him?”

“No. That's why he thinks you’re a paedophile.” 

“Stiles, you’re eighteen. Even if you were seventeen, it wouldn’t be a paedophile, because you’re not prepubescent.” 

“I know, thank god right? Anyway, about the piece. Apparently it's like a big deal?” 

“It's to other people. Not to me.”

“Oh. Okay.” 

“I'm pleased with it. It isn't my best work. But I'm pleased.” 

Stiles decides to change the subject completely. “So like, do you have a girlfriend? Or boyfriend. I don’t discriminate.” 

That wasn’t exactly the change in conversation he had been aiming for. 

“No.” 

“Oh, that’s good, because they probably wouldn’t have liked me being here.” 

“Probably not.” 

“You’re a really good artist, you know. I usually don’t understand art at all, because most of the time it’s just a bunch of colours and a deep title and all the fancy people swoon over it, but I just don’t understand. That’s what's so cool with you. People swoon over your work too, but I can actually understand your drawings. It's scary too, because they look so real.” 

Derek doesn’t say anything. 

“I’m not really all that good with brainstorming either.”

“I know.”

Stiles somehow manages to get allowed back in Derek's house the next week, and he spends every waken moment to look up Derek's previous work and different kinds of art. It’s like a maze and Stiles can barely even draw a stick figure, so he’s definitely in over his head. It’s kind of awesome, though. It's like he finally gets a glimpse of the life Derek lives. He finds forums on the internet where they gush over Derek's work. He spends a long time reading every post there is about _his_ piece. When he reads page after page of how obvious it is that Derek loves the guy (aka Stiles) in the drawing, no matter what he says in interviews, Stiles kind of starts believing it too. His brain desperately agrees when they discuss the privacy Derek has given Stiles, like he wants those parts for his eyes only, while there are pieces that shows exactly everything. Stiles _knows_ that Derek just didn't think it worked with Stiles’ piece, but it doesn’t really matter when other people talk about it so convincingly. 

When Stiles returns to Derek’s house the next week, he’s all fidgety with declarations of love and nervousness lingering heavily in the pit of his belly. Derek looks tired and haunted when he opens the door and everything in Stiles’ head that consisted of heavy making out against a wall and Derek’s mouth on a certain body part, is instantly replaced with a sticky worry that just won’t go away no matter how many times Derek says that he’s fine. 

“So,” Stiles says as he gives up on trying to pry information out of Derek. “I wrote down a few ideas, so if you want to take a look at them or something.” He pushes the notepad across the table, because he’s pretty convinced that Derek doesn’t like when Stiles hands him things. It’s like the coffee shop all over again. 

Derek’s eyes works quickly over the page and Stiles isn’t even sure that he’s actually _reading_ when it’s pushed back across the table. 

“No,” Derek says shortly. 

“No?” Stiles feels his face fall before he’s able to control his features. He hates that he's so easy to read. 

“No.” 

Derek is as generous with information as always.

“Okay, I’ll work on something else.” Stiles chews on the pen thoughtfully and glances at Derek every now and then. He’s just sitting at the kitchen table, staring at the window like he’s somewhere else completely. His eyes are so, so light compared to his dark hair, stubble and harsh look, in the sunlight. He looks like a contradiction. Stiles likes it a bit too much. 

“So, you like being alone, right?” he asks. It’s too quiet for him to be able to think. 

“Yeah.” 

“Why?” 

“Because it’s quiet.” 

Stiles really should take the hint, but he just ignores it. Derek hasn’t killed him yet, so Stiles figures that he must have more patience than he looks. 

“Isn't it really empty to have a house this big to yourself?” 

Derek just shrugs, either like it hasn't occurred to him or like it doesn’t matter to him, Stiles can’t really tell. 

“Where did you go to college?” 

Derek finally looks at him, eyes narrowing. “Is this an interview?” 

“No,” Stiles sighs. “I’m just curious.” 

Derek is silent for a long time, staring Stiles down like he’s waiting for him to crack and yelp that, _yes,_ he’s a journalist. But Stiles doesn’t, because he isn’t. He just wants to know, that’s all. “Art School,” he says then. It doesn’t really answer his question, but Stiles is fine with whatever he gets at this point.

He probably should have seen that one coming. 

“I should’ve known.”  

Derek looks out the window again. It makes Stiles want to crane his neck and find out what’s more interesting to look at than him. He manages to resist. 

“I’m taking a year off. I’m not sure what I want to do. I’m thinking working at a day care or something, but–” he trails off, because Derek isn’t listening and he’s just rambling to kill the silence. 

Stiles returns to coming up with new ideas, but they’re not as good as his first ones. He had a whole week to figure those out and it makes it all the more difficult that Derek seems really far away in thought today. He rejects every idea Stiles has. It’s like he doesn’t even bother to hear them out before he makes a decision. This irritates Stiles. A lot. 

“Maybe you shouldn’t do another one, then,” he says finally, after three hours of being torn between feeling brilliant for coming up with yet another idea, and then incredibly stupid as soon as Derek throws it out the window. 

“That’s what I’m thinking.” Derek’s voice sounds completely neutral, like it isn’t something that bothers him. Like he’s fine with never making another exhibition. 

“You’re an idiot if that’s what you’re thinking,” Stiles snaps and Derek looks at him, his eyebrows raising slowly. It feels a bit like a death threat. Just a little. 

“I thought you just suggested it yourself.” 

“I didn’t mean it. I’m just really tired of your negativity.” 

One corner of Derek's mouth lifts and then drops, but it’s enough for Stiles to keep coming up with ideas for another two hours (and Derek rejects all of them) before he finally gives up and drives home. 

Stiles manages to dig up Derek’s phone number from his dad’s database, when he brings a chicken salad a few days later. He probably should have asked Derek instead, but there’s the risk that he would get a no, and Stiles figures that Derek can’t really tell him to delete the number when he has it programmed in his phone already.  

He types and backspaces a million times, during the late hours of his night shift, before he finally settles for: 

**_I'm free on saturday. Can I drop by?_ **

It takes a good thirty minutes before he gets a reply. **_Who is this?_**

Oh right. He types back immediately. 

**_It's Stiles._ **

It takes almost an hour this time and he wonders what Derek is doing, or if he’s just really slow when it comes to typing. 

**_I should have known._ **

Stiles can’t agree more with that. It sort of bugs him how Derek is avoiding the question though. 

**_So, can I?_ **

He feels lame and pushy for having to ask again, but honestly, it’s not like Derek’s ever going to invite him over. 

Stiles has already made his way home and is just about to drop his head on his pillow, when he gets a reply: 

**_OK_.**  

He falls asleep with a stupid smile on his face. It really is an over-reaction to the two letters in Derek’s text, but he doesn’t care. 

* * *

On Friday night, they sit _in_ Scott's couch, pushing the buttons on their controllers violently and the words coming out of their mouths really aren’t suitable for minors. 

“So,” Scott says, when he’s gotten his head cut off for the fifth time in an hour. “How’s things going with Derek?” 

“I’m going there tomorrow.” 

Scott makes that kind of sound his team mates used to do every time one of them admitted that they had kissed someone. It’s like a really dragged out _ooh_ , with a quite high-pitched voice. Stiles hasn’t gotten one of those before. “So, when’s it Facebook Official?” 

Stiles blinks – not because he’s embarrassed or overwhelmed by the unexpected question, but because he just remembers adding Derek on Facebook ages ago, and Derek still hasn’t accepted his request. Well, one of the Derek Hales has, but he turned out to be sixty-two and has a Santa-like beard. Stiles had de-friended him immediately. 

“We haven’t even kissed,” he mutters and digs for his phone somewhere among the pillows. 

“Kiss him then.” Scott clearly doesn’t know that he would be risking his life if he just planted one on Derek’s mouth. 

Instead of answering, he types a text to Derek.

**_Added you on Facebook. You should accept._ **

It doesn't take as long as last time for him to get a reply: **_I don't have Facebook._**

That explains so much to Stiles. He’s going to have to change that. 

**_Tomorrow you will._ ** He texts back. 

Derek doesn’t reply, but Stiles doesn’t care, because he’s going over there tomorrow anyway. 

* * *

He wears his standard red hoodie to Derek the next day. It’s cold outside, even for November and it’s raining. He’s soaked even though it’s not that long of a sprint from his jeep to Derek’s front door. It’s not fair, for god’s sake, to have to look like a drenched cat when he’s trying his best to be irresistible. 

Derek looks at him with a disapproving frown, before he steps aside and lets Stiles in. He looks up towards the sky for a moment, like he’s trying to determine if this is going to continue for long before he closes the door. 

Stiles looks at him, waits for Derek to ask him if he wants to borrow a shirt. Or pants. Or both. Stiles would like both. It takes Derek almost a minute of staring contest before he opens his mouth and says: 

“I take it that you want dry clothes.” 

“ _Yes_.” Stiles cheers inside. Sometimes he wonders if Derek really is this impolite or if he’s doing it on purpose just to annoy Stiles. 

He follows Derek through the house, even though it seems like Derek wants him to stay put. Stiles is way too curious to take a hint. He has only seen the bathroom, the kitchen and the living room so far. Derek sort of refuses to give him a tour and Stiles is pretty sure that it wouldn’t be appreciated if he wandered around on his own. 

Derek’s bedroom is nothing special. Except for the fact that it’s Derek's bedroom. With Derek’s bed. Where Derek sleeps and probably jerks off on occasion. Stiles is going to ignore that Derek might have had sex there, too. It’s not important. It has bare, light grey walls and a bed that’s much too big for one person alone, in one end of the room. In the other, there’s a dresser and a closed door to what Stiles assumes is a closet. There are a couple of books lying on one of the bedside tables, but that’s pretty much the only thing saying that someone actually lives here. Stiles has seen hotel rooms with more personality than this. 

“This looks like a hospital for mental patients.” 

Derek glares at him and disappears through the door on the other side of the room. Stiles was right: it’s a closet. He takes the opportunity to flop down on Derek’s bed. There’s a small risk that he might never end up there again, so he should just see what it feels like, so that his imagination gets something to go on when he’s having quality time with himself. 

He lets himself fall back against the covers and stretches his arms out over his head, his feet still planted on the floor. He half-expected Derek to sleep on a flat rock, but this is definitely more comfortable. He glances around the room again and notices a camera standing on the dresser. It looks old and probably isn’t anywhere close to digital.

“Do you photograph?” he asks loudly so that Derek can hear him through the door. “Since you have a camera, I mean.”

“I don’t. It leaks light. It’s useless,” Derek mutters and Stiles can easily imagine the frown on his face. 

Stiles shrugs to himself and tries bouncing, just to see what the bed is capable of. _Of course_ Derek chooses that exact moment to walk out of the closet. He stares for a moment and Stiles stares back, mouth hanging open with an explanation stuck in his throat. The next moment he has a face full of clothes and he sits up quickly, fighting the shirt from his face. 

He isn’t even going to complain. It’s not like he doesn’t deserve that kind of treatment. There’s a t-shirt that looks way too big, and beige trousers that don’t look _that_ big, which is weird, because Derek for one: doesn’t look like a chinos guy, and two: his thighs are like twice the size of Stiles’. 

He doesn’t complain though and shucks his clothes in a pile on the floor. It’s not very gracious, but Derek hasn’t left the room and Stiles is in a bit of a hurry to take them all off. If he’s naked Derek might lose his mind and do things to him. Also, it’s not like Derek hasn’t seen any of this before, so he doesn’t really care. Except that he does, because his heart is thumping like crazy in his chest and he’s blushing when he scrambles to his feet to pull Derek’s trousers up. At least he kept his underwear on. He’s a little surprised to feel Derek’s eyes on him and he’s even more surprised by how uncomfortable it feels. Stiles doesn’t exactly have the rock hard abs Derek has. It’s a relief when he finally pulls the t-shirt over his head. It really is too big, but the trousers fit rather nicely actually. The best thing is that he has his nose full of Derek-scent and it’s so, so good. 

He sticks his nose into the fabric whenever Derek looks the other way and inhales deeply. It’s a little washed-out, but it’s soft beneath his fingers when he pretends to smooth it out. In reality, he’s just trying to press the scent onto his skin. 

“You hungry?” Derek asks, much to Stiles surprise. He ate before he came here, but honestly, he’s a teenage boy, he could eat the whole town and still have room for more. 

“Yeah, if you’re going to eat.” 

Derek doesn’t answer, but he cooks and Stiles is very shocked to find that he doesn’t look uncomfortable in a kitchen at all. And the chilli he makes is probably the best thing Stiles has ever eaten, but he might be a bit biased. 

“This is awesome,” he says with his mouth full and Derek does his little mouth-twitch. “Best thing I’ve ever eaten.” 

“You shouldn’t talk with your mouth full.” 

Stiles snorts. “Dude, you eat like a pig. You’re not allowed to have a say in this.” 

Derek doesn’t exactly eat like a pig. He just eats very, very quickly and Stiles wonders if he even chews or if he just shovels the food in there and swallows. He eats like someone who hasn’t eaten around other people in a long time. 

“So, Facebook,” Stiles says and drops his fork back on the plate with a groan. 

“No.” 

“It’s awesome. Perfect for stalking.”

“I think you’re mistaking me for you.” 

“Oh, _ouch_.” 

“You deserve it.”

“Do you wanna brainstorm?” 

“I don’t really feel like it today.” 

“Oh, okay.” Stiles sits up and rubs his hands. They don’t know each other that well yet. He can’t expect to be invited to stay when he can’t pretend that they’re brainstorming. “Thanks for dinner.” 

“It’s still raining,” Derek points out with a disinterested look on his face. 

“Yeah, it’s okay, I’ll run. I can be fast if I want to, believe it or not.” 

“It’s fine if you want to stay until it stops.” 

Stiles breathes out much louder than he wanted to. “Really?” 

“I said it’s fine.” 

That’s probably the only invitation he’s ever going to get. Stiles spends the evening on Derek’s couch, flipping through the very many channels on his TV and pretends like he isn’t hyper-aware of Derek sitting so close to him. They’re not touching or anything, but he can feel Derek’s body heat radiating through his clothes. Stiles wants to snuggle up against him.

He does the mistake of turning his head to sneak a peek, only to find Derek already looking at him. And Stiles can’t stop himself. He just leans in and then his lips are on Derek’s. Two erratic heartbeats later, he realises what he’s doing and just runs out of there. Because Stiles is good at dealing with uncomfortable situations like that. 

He doesn’t realise until he’s half-way home that he’s still wearing Derek’s clothes. And that his own are left behind. When he fishes in the pocket for his phone to text Derek that he’s sorry for stealing his clothes, he realises that it’s _also_ left at Derek’s house. There’s no way Stiles is going back there, looking like an idiot. 

_Oh my god,_ he kissed Derek. The realisation hits him like a tidal wave straight in the face. Actually it’s more like he brushed his lips against Derek’s, but it still counts. He tries not to think about the fact that Derek didn’t kiss him back, not even in the slightest. 

His life would be so much easier right now if Derek had Facebook. They could just solve this little issue on the chat and no one would have to be all that embarrassed. Derek could send Stiles his clothes by mail and Stiles could do the same with Derek’s and it would all be fine. Now, Stiles has taken one too many Adderall and stares at his computer like it will magically transform into a phone. His dad asked him what was wrong when he burst through the front door, but he’s left Stiles alone since then. It’s been almost two hours. 

Stiles doesn’t hear the knock on the front door and he doesn’t hear his dad talk to someone downstairs. He barely even registers when his bedroom door is pushed open. Actually he doesn't react until he looks up and finds Derek standing in his doorway with Stiles' clothes in a neat pile in his hands and his phone balancing on top of it. Trust Derek Hale to find Stiles only to bring him his clothes back. 

Stiles looks down on himself and realises that he’s still wearing Derek’s clothes. “I,” he starts and flushes. This probably looks exactly like it is, he figures. “I’ll just change and you can have them back. Or do you want me to wash them first and I’ll give them back to you afterwards? Of course you want me to wash them first. God why would you want back clothes that are dirty?”

“Stiles,” Derek says the way he always says Stiles' name. 

“Sorry I wasn’t thinking. I don’t know what I was thinking if I was thinking. I- it just happened. I’m sorry.” 

Stiles isn’t talking about wearing Derek’s clothes anymore. He isn’t even sure that he’s talking about the sort of-kiss, or if he’s referring to the traitor in his chest.

“You can bring them back when you come by next week,” Derek answers and Stiles' heart is collapsing. This is giving him whiplash. 

“I – _what?_ ” 

“Brainstorming,” Derek elaborates, like Stiles is an idiot. 

He knows better than questioning by now. 

“Yeah okay. Next Saturday?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Okay.”

And then Derek leaves and Stiles rushes to his window to watch Derek get into his car and drive off. Two seconds later, his dad walks into his room with a weird look on his face. 

“Want to explain why you’re hanging out with the guy who drew that picture of you? And by any chance, why he has your clothes with him?” 

“Er,” Stiles says and stares, because in a perfect scenario Stiles would be sleeping with Derek and make up excuses about their meeting being completely platonic and only about brainstorming. In the bad scenario, that is his life, Stiles _is_ actually only helping Derek out with brainstorming and isn’t getting laid at all. God, he is so pathetic. “I know you’re never going to believe me, but I actually only help out with brainstorming for his new project and it was raining really badly when I got there today and he let me borrow some clothes.” 

“And you try to tell me that’s why you came back in such a hurry that you forgot your phone over there? Son, you bring that phone with you to the bathroom.” 

Stiles' laugh is a little hysterical. “I might have tried to kiss him and then I freaked and ran out of there.” 

His dad stares. Stiles kind of stares too. He’s not known for having a filter, but letting that slip out is a bit unfortunate even for him. 

“Ah,” Stiles says after a moment, when his dad’s still staring and Stiles isn’t entirely sure what to say. “That just sort of slipped out.” 

His dad nods shortly, like he already knew this. He looks like he’s thinking a thousand strange thoughts, before he says: “He didn’t kiss you back?”

“No.” Even though Stiles kind of wants to lie to make himself look less lame, he thinks it’s safer for Derek’s life if he sticks to the truth. For once. “He isn’t...he doesn’t like me.” 

“Hm,” his dad says and it’s the same voice he uses when Stiles tells him about something not-very-legal he and Scott has done. 

“Oh my god, dad. It’s none of your business.” 

“He seems to be going through a whole lot of trouble for someone who doesn’t like you.” With a shrug, his dad leaves the room, and Stiles wants to die and laugh at the same time. It takes him a moment to realise that he's still wearing Derek’s clothes. It’s a little embarrassing to admit that he actually decides to sleep with them on.

A couple of days later, Stiles sits in Scott's couch once again and talks about Derek. It's a nice change, Stiles thinks, not to talk about Allison. It's also nice that Scott seems to be a lot more interested in talking about Derek than Stiles is in talking about Allison, so it's a win-win, really. 

“Speaking of Derek,” Scott says after dying for the millionth time. “I saw him at the hospital last week when I dropped off mom.” 

“Really?” Stiles pauses the game just as Scott starts a new round. 

“Yeah, probably visiting someone,” Scott shrugs and starts the game, but Stiles pauses it immediately. 

“He doesn't have any family.” It's weird. He shouldn't have this strange feeling in his belly, but he does. It's a bit like motion sickness. 

“Maybe he's visiting a friend then.” 

Stiles wants to laugh a bit, because he can't imagine Derek having friends at all. He's just about to agree anyway when Scott adds: 

“Or maybe he's just sick.” 

“Yeah, probably seeking help for his ulcers,” he says and pushes the weird feeling away again. It's not like Derek has seemed ill the times Stiles has been with him, so he doesn't have to worry. Being sick shows. 

“I still think he looks like an axe murderer,” Scott comments and starts the game again. Stiles doesn't pause it this time. 

“Like a _sexy_ axe murderer,” he replies instantly and cuts Scott's head off. 

* * *

A couple weeks later, Stiles is lying on Derek’s sofa, feeling too full to function. He should have Derek to cook for him for the rest of his life. The food is too awesome to live without, after eating it once.

Derek sits a foot away from him, watching the TV intently and Stiles takes the opportunity to look at him. They haven’t really mentioned what happened that time a few weeks ago and Stiles isn’t going to bring it up, or try anything like it again. He’s not going to push his luck when Derek so obviously is willing to pretend like it didn’t happen. Almost twice. Stiles almost-kissed him in the art institute that day, too. 

Stiles really is quite thankful for that, but he’s also so very confused. It’s not like he helps out very much when it comes to brainstorming. He usually brings a new idea or two that he presents whenever he comes over. It feels like he has to bribe himself past the front door with something and ideas are the only thing he can offer that he thinks Derek would want. Derek rejects all of them within ten minutes, but the weird thing is that Stiles doesn’t leave after that, or try to come up with new ideas. He just hangs around, sits on the kitchen counter and watches Derek cook while his eyes are running from helping out with chopping onions and chatters too much, but Derek doesn’t tell him to shut up. Derek has become increasingly introverted, and Stiles didn’t even think that it was possible to become more of an introvert than Derek already was. He rarely says anything and it’s been long since Stiles saw that mouth-twitch. Sometimes his hands are shaking and sometimes he looks at Stiles like he doesn’t know why he’s there. One time, Stiles even has to remind him that it’s Saturday and that it’s their usual day for hanging out. Derek looks heartbroken for a second then, but the look on his face disappears so quickly that Stiles isn’t sure if it was there at all. 

Stiles has this gnawing feeling in his stomach that something is wrong, but he doesn’t know what. He doesn’t even know how to ask. He has a feeling that going straight to the point won’t work with Derek. He also doesn’t think hinting about it will work either. 

“It’s Christmas soon,” Stiles says randomly, just to make the silence go away. The sound from the TV doesn’t count. 

Derek nods, but doesn’t take his gaze away from the show. 

“Are you visiting your family, or...?” Stiles already knows about Derek’s family, because he’s read Derek’s file, but he can’t tell him that. It would be weird and awkward and Stiles shouldn’t have read about Derek’s family perishing in a fire, in this very house, to begin with at all. 

“No.” 

“Why?” It would be so much easier if Derek would just say what Stiles already knows. 

“Stiles, don’t pretend like you don’t know already.” 

“I just want it to come from you,” he mumbles, and feels stupid because Stiles probably should’ve guessed that Derek would know. Derek is far more observant than he looks and Stiles keeps forgetting that. 

“Fine. They’re dead.” Derek's voice is rough and Stiles flinches before he can stop himself. Okay, this isn’t going the way he planned. He wanted this to be a nice chat, where Derek could open his heart and maybe Stiles could do the same, because he’s never met anyone else that has lost someone before. Except for his dad, but it hurts too much to talk about his mom with his dad. It's raw pain on his dad’s face every time her name is mentioned around him. Stiles just tries to avoid the subject the best he can. 

Stiles decides it’s best not to answer when Derek is in one of his moods. Usually it’s best just to go home when this happens, but Stiles if far too comfortable on the couch to move. He stares at the TV without really looking, but it’s easier than looking at Derek. Usually when Stiles gets this heart-wrenching sensation, he just needs to look away and pretend like Derek isn’t anywhere close to him and that he’s definitely not anywhere close to being Stiles’ boyfriend. The thing is that Stiles thought this would go away on its own, the whole crushing-on-Derek-because-he’s-dangerous thing, but it hasn’t. Actually it’s even worse than what it ever was with Lydia. It’s like Stiles whole universe has changed focus to someone who doesn’t want to be in it. And it’s like gravitation pulling him into the black hole that is Derek, every time he’s around. 

Stiles doesn’t know when he fell asleep, but when he wakes up, it’s dark and he’s covered with the blanket that usually lays over the armrest of Derek’s couch. He’s a bit cold and Derek isn’t there. He’s probably in his own bed, sleeping. Stiles hasn’t been in Derek’s bedroom since that day when he got to borrow clothes. He still hasn’t given them back, or washed them, even though Derek’s smell is long gone by now. He just likes the thought of them actually belonging to Derek. 

He probably would have gone back to sleep, since his dad is attending some kind of course over the weekend in the next town, and Stiles likes the thought of being able to tell people that he’s slept over at Derek’s without outright lying. But he needs to pee, so he gets up anyway. The floors are so cold that his feet hurt and he doesn’t understand how Derek survives living in this place. 

Once he’s flushed the toilet, the only sane thing would be to go back to the couch or just go home, but Stiles gets an idea and when Stiles gets an idea, he doesn’t have a choice but to go with it. It rarely ends up well, either. He really shouldn't sneak into Derek's bedroom to look at him sleeping.  In an attempt to distract himself, he gives in to the temptation to go through Derek's bathroom cabinet. It's like a thing Stiles does when he's visiting other people. The content usually says a lot about the person. Like Scott for example, who has five different kinds of empty toothpaste tubes that he just doesn't throw away, and a disposable razor that he uses multiple times. Going through Derek's bathroom cabinet, however, is much more interesting. He has an electric razor that is put neatly in its stand, only one tube of toothpaste and an electric toothbrush. There's aftershave that Stiles only _just_ manages to keep himself from using and a comb. Stiles brushes his fingertip over the items carefully. There are condoms too and he's disproportionately happy when he realises that the box is unopened. He almost misses it, but just behind the box of condoms is a small, yellow jar. Stiles just knows that it's for medication. He pulls it out carefully and makes sure that the lid is on properly, because it would be typically him to spill out every single one of the pills all over the bathroom floor. He doesn't recognise the name of the medication, but it's definitely some kind of prescription for Derek personally. It has his name on it. A lump of worry forms heavily in his belly as he puts it back.  

If it was possible for him to resist watching Derek sleeping before, it definitely isn't now. It's like he has to make sure that Derek is all right. He tries to walk as quietly as possible, afraid to ruin everything if he wakes Derek up by being too loud. He just wants to know what Derek looks like sleeping and make sure that he's okay. It’s a bit of Edward Cullen of him now, he’ll admit that and probably make an appointment with a shrink once he’s had a look, because this isn’t sane, he knows that. It’s just that he might not get this opportunity again ever. 

The door to Derek’s bedroom is ajar, and there’s a faint light slipping through the darkness through the crack and into the hallway where Stiles is standing. He holds his breath, trying to catch sounds or any indication of Derek being awake, but everything is quiet. He tells himself that he can always just make up a story that he wanted to say goodbye before leaving, if Derek happens to be awake, and pushes to door open carefully. 

The light comes from a small lamp on the windowsill. It’s dim and is useless for reading in, but he figures Derek must have just forgotten to turn it off before going to bed. And Derek’s there, on his stomach, face turned away from Stiles. The covers have been pushed down to the foot of the bed and Derek isn’t wearing anything but black boxer briefs. Stiles wants to die. Especially when he kind of stumbles over his own feet, how that’s even _possible_ since he’s standing completely still. He flails desperately to regain balance and knocks over a pile of books that spreads across the floor with the sound of an earthquake. 

All the excuses Stiles made up for looking at Derek when he’s sleeping disappears in a heartbeat when Derek jerks awake and stares at him. Stiles’ breath hitches as he waits for the open, confused expression on Derek’s face to slide back into its usual scowl. It doesn’t and Stiles just continues to stare because he can’t come up with anything to say. 

“Did you want something?” Derek asks finally and rolls over so he’s facing Stiles. His hair is messy and his voice is a little raspy with sleep. Stiles’ heart cracks open a little further. 

“Yeah,” he answers, because it’s true. He wants to kiss Derek and press their bodies together. And he wants to slide his hands over Derek’s chest to find out if it’s just as smooth as it looks. He rakes his eyes all over Derek’s body, taking it all in, because he doesn’t have it in him to care that he’s being really inappropriate. 

“Stiles,” Derek says, but it’s not the usual way he says Stiles’ name. It’s more like Derek's telling him that if he keeps pushing, he’s going to break rules this time. And that Derek isn’t going to stop him if he does. Stiles has been wandering around crime scenes for years; he doesn’t care about breaking rules. 

“Yeah?” Stiles replies and tears his gaze away from the trail of hair leading down into the waistband of Derek’s underwear. He wants to lick it. 

Derek looks like he’s searching for words or maybe a defence. Like he’s trying to come up with a good reason not to do this. Stiles’ hearts starts thumping faster with every second that ticks by and he can see Derek’s walls crumble down behind his eyes. 

“Are you cold?” Derek asks then and, for a moment, Stiles gets a little angry, because he was aiming for at least a steamy make out session and not a question about his well-being. But then he gets it, just as Derek scoots back a little further on the bed. _Making room for him_. 

“Super-cold,” Stiles says lamely and it doesn’t even sound remotely sexy or like it’s code for _no but please ravish me on your bed_ , like he wanted it to. Derek reaches down to pull the covers back up and then holds them open, like he's waiting for Stiles to get in. _And of course he is._ Stiles still has trouble believing that this is happening for real. It takes a moment for his brain to click and then he scrambles out of his clothes very ungracefully, but unlike his modelling-times, he keeps his underwear on. 

He isn’t sure which way to turn. If he’s supposed to face Derek and just aim for his mouth, or lie on his back and let Derek take control, or if he’s supposed to snuggle up against Derek and spoon, because he’s not supposed to get any action at all. 

He’s just about to ask, because Stiles isn’t going to miss out on making out if he has the chance to get some, when Derek pushes him back against the mattress and leans over him. Stiles really can’t breathe. But it’s the good kind, the kind where he doesn’t really want to because he’s too busy with staring at Derek. Stiles flickers his gaze downwards and marvels over the look of Derek’s chest close up like this, and before he can stop himself, he’s running his hand from the dip in Derek's throat down to his bellybutton and Derek _shudders_. Then he grabs Stiles’ hand and for a moment, Stiles thinks he’s going to be told off, but Derek just squeezes it lightly, before placing it against his cheek. Stiles watches his eyes flicker close for a second and he runs his thumb across the sharp line of Derek’s cheekbone. His skin is warm and sleep-soft and when he opens his eyes again, Stiles' belly contracts so hard it almost hurts. They’re dark, huge pupils with just a faint line of irises around them, and they just pull Stiles in. 

He doesn’t know how much time that has passed, it could be a second or half an hour, but then Derek’s lips are on his. It's not rough or needy like Stiles has pictured it to be. It’s slow and calculated, with the tease of Derek’s lips just slowly brushing over his, coaxing Stiles into lifting his head from the pillow for more. Stiles almost whines when Derek pulls back an inch for every inch Stiles moves closer and he’s just about to complain when Derek pushes him back against the mattress again. Stiles stares up at him, heart pounding in his chest and he doesn’t know when it happened, but he’s semi-hard already and he knows that Derek knows. The next time Derek leans in for a kiss, it isn’t as gentle. Stiles thought that books explaining how the characters got their breaths taken away from a kiss were pure bullshit, but holy crap, he can’t breathe, he doesn’t _want_ to breathe, when Derek kisses him so hard, that Stiles is sure that his brain is melting. There’s surprisingly little tongue, just a hint of it whenever Derek’s teeth closes around his upper lip, or when he just decides to suck Stiles’ bottom lip into his mouth. Stiles just holds on, grabbing Derek’s biceps, and tries to keep up. His lips feel mauled and swollen when Derek finally pulls away, and Stiles lets out a shaky breath. 

“I,” he croaks out, but he has absolutely no idea of what he’s saying. His brain is so empty. He sticks his tongue out and licks his lips, making sure that they really are sore and that it isn’t just something that he imagined. 

“Let’s just go to sleep, Stiles,” Derek says lowly and his voice is rough from a whole other reason than usually now, and it makes goose bumps spread over Stiles’ skin. He’s about to protest when Derek turns him over onto his side, and curls himself around him. And yeah, Stiles isn't the only one getting worked up over that make out-session. 

He feels both frustrated and a bit smug over feeling Derek’s hard-on press against his ass through their underwear, but he tries to tell himself that he at least is lying in Derek’s bed, with kiss-swollen lips and a hot guy spooning him. He shouldn’t complain. Also none of this makes any sense, but Stiles decides that he doesn’t care when Derek’s lip brush against the skin at the nape of his neck. It could be accidental, but Stiles pretends that it’s not. 

He slowly slips his hand down and intertwines his fingers with Derek’s. It’s like he’s winning the life lottery right now. 

* * *

The next morning, the bed is empty when Stiles wakes up. It’s not that strange, because it looks like it’s past lunch, judging from how sunny it is outside. He stretches and looks around the room. It’s just the same and he would think that he had been dreaming all of it if he actually wasn’t lying in Derek’s bed and if his lips weren’t this sore. But nope, it definitely happened. Stiles made out with Derek Hale last night. In this bed. Maybe he actually can lose his virginity before he’s thirty. 

He has a hard time deciding if he should get dressed or just go find Derek in his underwear, but decides for the former when he pushes the covers down and realises how damn cold it is. He’s grateful for his decision when he finds Derek in the kitchen, fully clothed with a book in hand. He barely looks at Stiles when he walks in; it’s just a glance up, acknowledging him, and then back to the book. 

“Good morning,” Stiles says and tries to sound like his stomach isn’t tying itself into an anxious knot. 

“Morning,” Derek replies, but it’s more a mutter than actual words. 

Stiles isn’t rude enough to ask for breakfast. It’s obvious that Derek isn’t all that interested in him being there and Stiles wants to sing Katy Perry again. His brain isn’t made for working things like these out. He doesn’t understand what Derek wants from him. 

“Actually I should go,” he states, and he doesn’t like the way Derek makes him feel weak like this. Insecure. Stiles doesn’t do insecure anymore. 

He makes sure that he hasn’t forgotten anything before he drives away. Derek barely said bye. The Derek that’s probably still sitting at the kitchen table isn’t the same Derek Stiles kissed last night. He doesn’t understand the difference between them. At least he doesn’t have to expect Derek coming by to drop off the things he’s forgotten. Stiles is in love with him, but he can’t do this. Honestly, he doesn’t get what Derek is playing at. 

The first week into December is hard, but Stiles manages. He barely even remembers what he did on Thanksgiving. He takes extra shifts at work and busies himself with friends. He tells them the truth when they ask, but they don’t understand either. He helps his dad clean the house and put the Christmas curtains up that his mother made just before she died. It’s still painful to look at them, but Stiles wouldn’t want a Christmas without them there. She died on the 26th December, staying just long enough to watch Stiles unwrap his presents one last time. Stiles sometimes wishes that his last memory of her wasn't celebrating Christmas in a hospital, but he doesn't want to forget either.

He kills time with catching Pokémon and cleaning his room. It’s all fine until he finds the article from the paper months ago, the one about the exhibition. And then Stiles sinks to the floor and hugs his legs to his chest. He doesn’t cry. He doesn’t cry anymore. But he can feel the tears clogging his throat and burn behind his eyes. He wonders if he’s forever doomed to fall for people who don’t have the least interest in him. It still doesn’t make sense with the kiss. Stiles wants to understand to be able to let it go, but there’s no way he’s going back to Derek’s to put himself through that roller-coaster ride of emotional confusion again. He just wants to be able to let Derek go. If he’s been able to go his entire life without actually meeting him before this summer, he can probably spend the rest of his life avoiding him as well. 

He texts Scott and he’s actually willing to give Scott an award for best friend of the year when he comes by just thirty minutes later. Stiles wants to give him an even bigger award for not even once mentioning Allison. They just play video games and ignore that Stiles is miserable and that Scott probably is really worried about him. Stiles is really lucky that he has Scott. He knows that. Even though Scott has a vocabulary as big the back pocket on his pants. Scott doesn’t wear pants with back pockets.

It’s a week before Christmas and Stiles is starting to feel like himself again, if only just a little, when he sees Derek. Because of course Derek drops by to ruin Stiles’ life, just as it’s starting to get back on track. Stiles wants to hate him, but he can’t. His traitor-heart flips in his chest when Derek walks through the doors to the coffee shop at exactly five-forty five. Stiles knows that Derek knows that he would be there. There’s just no way that Derek’s doing this by chance. Isaac should be killed for telling him when Stiles would be working the morning shift. Decapitated in public. Castrated on a stage. Killed by a tomato-throwing mob.

“Please just leave,” Stiles whispers, and he’s not even sure if Derek is close enough to hear, but he says it anyway. 

“Stiles.” It sounds like a plea this time. 

“No, you don’t get to use that voice, Derek,” and he tries to sound confident and strong. Like he isn’t falling apart inside. It doesn’t work very well. “You already know. I already let you know how I feel. And you just...you just make me even more confused by rejecting me and then pull me back, only to reject me even worse next time. You don’t get to do that anymore.” 

Derek stands there, hands in his pockets and looks at him, listens to him. Stiles can see the Adam’s apple bob in his throat as he swallows. His face is naked, surprisingly vulnerable. Stiles is afraid of what’s going to happen. It looks like Derek is scared, too. 

They look at each other for a long time. Stiles isn’t sure how long, but it’s definitely minutes rather than seconds. And minutes are long when one isn’t surfing the internet.

“I want to be with you,” Derek says suddenly and Stiles is sure that he’s mistaken. “But I can’t.”

And just like that, Stiles knows it’s happening, because it’s just Derek’s whiplash-behaviour all over again. 

“Just get the fuck out,” Stiles snaps. It doesn’t matter that his heart aches for Derek to say that first sentence again. He has had enough of this. 

“Please just let me explain.” 

Stiles might have kept up his act of wanting Derek out of there if it wasn’t for the look in Derek’s eyes. It's like he’s terrified. Stiles crumbles. 

“I want to be with you,” Derek says again and Stiles wants to cry because it hurts. “But I can’t, because I’m dying, Stiles.”

It’s like he’s standing in the middle of an earthquake, watching the whole world fall apart around him. Then there’s just Stiles and Derek left. And the empty hole in his chest where his feelings are supposed to be. Stiles feels cold.

“I have a brain tumour.” Derek’s voice is barely audible, but it breaks over the last words, and Stiles wonders if he has ever told anyone this before. “It’s growing slowly, but I can’t do this, Stiles. I can’t be with you when I’m going to die.” 

Stiles isn’t sure where it comes from, he just shouts. It’s mean and he tells Derek to get the fuck out of there, to leave him alone, that he hates him and it feels like he does. And when Derek doesn’t move, Stiles starts throwing things after him. It does the trick. 

When he’s alone, Stiles sinks to the floor. He just can’t take another person doing this to him again. Putting him through this. Derek isn’t allowed to make Stiles fall in love with him, and then tell him he’s about to die. _He isn’t allowed._

He calls Mr. Berry and doesn’t explain anything except that he just can’t work anymore today. It’s weird, because Mr. Berry usually is one of those people who thinks everyone should work unless they’re hospitalised, but maybe it’s the tremor in Stiles’ voice that makes him say that he’ll make sure someone comes by as soon as possible and send Stiles home. 

It’s only thirty minutes later, when Isaac storms through the doors, but it feels like years of shallow breaths and confusion. He doesn’t explain; he just walks all the way home and leaves his jeep in the parking lot outside the coffee shop. It’s not that far. A couple of miles. Stiles wants to hit Derek in the face. Hurt him for thinking that it would be okay to make Stiles keep coming back again and again and again, and then tell him that he’s going to fade away just as slowly as Stiles’ mother did. He just can’t accept that Derek’s going to be lying in a hospital bed, where everything is going to be too white, and Derek will be squeezing his hand before letting go of it, of everything, and Stiles will be alone again. Just like when his mother died. And he will be left with half a heart, because they will both have taken the rest of it with them. Stiles is sure that no one can live with half a heart.

He doesn’t want to love Derek anymore. He just wants to turn it off. 

Isaac must have called Scott, because he’s already there when Stiles gets home. He really deserves that friendship award. Scott doesn’t say anything; he just listens to Stiles talk. He doesn’t even laugh when Stiles explains how childishly in love he's been with Derek and that, somewhere along the way, it just turned a little more serious than that. When Stiles tells him about the kiss in the bed and then the morning after, he can see Scott ball his hands into fists, and then Scott pulls him close when the words _brain tumour_ leaves Stiles' mouth. Scott has only held him like this once before, that was back when Stiles still cried like he does now. When Stiles' mother was dying, he would go over to Scott’s or Scott would come over to him, and they wouldn’t say a thing, just sit like this and cry. Because when Stiles cries, Scott does too. It just works that way with them. 

Stiles wonders if it hurts so much to cry just because he hasn’t done it in so many years, or because his heart is trying its best not to break. 

That night, they curl up together in Stiles’ bed. It’s much less room there now than there was the last time they did this, but it still means more to Stiles than anything. Scott has even turned his phone off, and it’s not that Stiles hasn’t always known that he’s more important than Allison when it all comes down to it, but it’s nice to see it too. 

Scott never says that it’s going to be okay, because Scott doesn’t know if it is. Stiles doesn’t either. 

* * *

Scott tells Stiles’ dad the next day and he stays home from work no matter how much Stiles tells him not to. He doesn’t say much, but the way he looks at Stiles makes up for all the words he could have ever said. 

He gets a text from Derek that evening. 

**_Scott told me. I'm so sorry._ ** ****

Stiles doesn’t need to ask why Scott has talked to Derek, or what he’s told Derek, because it’s all in there, between the lines. Derek knows about Stiles’ mom and now he finally understands. He has lost his family too, after all. 

Stiles stares at the text for a long time and he types and backspaces for an hour before he gives up. He just sends: **_It's not your fault._** But he thinks it is.

Derek answers almost immediately.  **_I should have told you from the start._ **

Stiles snorts to himself and blinks. His face is swollen from dried tears and his skin hurts a little. 

**_Yeah._ **

He feels stupid, but he curls up in bed with Derek’s t-shirt pressed to his face. It doesn’t smell like anything but Stiles anymore, but it has this weird comforting way that still hurts to the core. It’s difficult to understand Derek’s words, even though Stiles knows what they mean. Derek isn’t old enough to die. It’s too soon. It’s even harder to understand that he wants to be with Stiles too, but they can’t because Derek’s not going to be around that much longer. It’s unfair, because Stiles has been with no one but Derek in his head since the beginning of June. He wonders if Derek knew even back then. He wonders if that’s the reason Derek has rejected all of his ideas. He wonders if Derek has tried to push him away for both of their sakes, but then hasn’t been able to stick to it. He wonders a little bit if it swells in Derek’s chest when he looks at Stiles too, just the same way that it does when Stiles looks at him. Or if he feels like he, too, is going to break sometimes.

Stiles falls asleep with Derek’s t-shirt pressed to his face and his phone tightly in his hand. He just wants to make sure that he doesn’t miss a single word of anything Derek might have to say to him, and at the same time he just wants to tell Derek to piss the fuck off. He figures it’s too late for the latter anyway. 

* * *

It's strange how life somehow moves on around him, even though he feels like he's stuck to the ground. Then, suddenly, it's the last day for him to send in his college application and Stiles hasn't written a personal statement yet. The Word document stares emptily at him from the screen of his computer and his fingers hover over the keyboard, ready to write, but his mind is blank. Blank of ideas and full of chaos at the same time. 

He Googles for tips when it comes to writing a personal statements and clicks on them aimlessly, barely reading the contents. Most of them say what he already knows: the personal statement is important, crucial even, since it's his way to put a personality on his grades. 

All he can think of is Derek and he really isn't up for making himself sound like the most awesome, desirable student in the universe. He knows that Lydia's sister wrote a personal statement about a homeless person she used to walk past on her way to work every morning and that got her into Brown. 

Then he comes across a page on his Google search that talks about someone writing a personal statement about a fly. He taps his fingers against the desk and tries to make his brain start working again, but it seems to be room for nothing but Derek. 

That's when Stiles decides to write his personal statement about losing someone you love and loving someone you might lose, despite how much it will hurt to type it all down. 

* * *

It feels like Christmas has lost all its meaning when Stiles sits on the couch on Christmas day, staring at the tree. His dad loves the blinking, multi-coloured lights. Stiles hates them, but he doesn’t have the energy to fight for a decent Christmas tree this year. He watches them switch from red to purple to blue and waits for his dad to finish cleaning the dishes, so that they can start opening presents. There’s a huge one leaning against the wall and Stiles knows it’s for him, because it’s not _from_ him, but he just can’t figure out what it is. Maybe it’s the pinboard Stiles wanted when he was eleven but never got. It wouldn’t surprise him if his dad didn’t get his thumb out to buy it until now. 

He’s been asking Scott’s mom about brain tumours obsessively the last few days. She says it’s all about what kind it is and that if Derek says he’s dying, he probably is. It’s not the comforting words he wants to hear, but he appreciates them all the same. He has also been stupid enough to read everything about brain tumours that he can find on Google. Mostly he just manages to get information saying that they’re all different and give different symptoms for every individual. He reads about personality changes and people going blind. He reads about memory loss and coordination troubles. He now knows why Derek looks so confused sometimes or why his hands are shaking on occasion. He knows why Derek doesn’t care that triple espressos aren’t all that good for your belly, because nothing can be worse than this. 

He feels his dad’s hand land heavily on his shoulder and looks up. It takes him a minute to realise that he’s been crying again, without noticing. He’s done that a lot lately. He’s been avoiding Derek and his texts. Mostly he’s just been deleting them before even reading them, because he can’t take it. He doesn’t want any memories left when Derek’s gone. Yesterday he deleted all of the pictures he downloaded from Google image search months ago. Two hours later he found himself looking through his phone for them and he realises that that’s what it will be like when Derek’s gone. Stiles will find himself looking for someone who isn’t there all the time and each time his world will crumble down around him with realisation. The worst part is that no matter how hard he tries to hate Derek, he can’t. Not even a little bit.

“Ready to open your gifts?” Stiles’ dad says and even though the lines on his face are as stern as always, his eyes are soft. 

Stiles just nods and hastily wipes his tears away with the back of his hand. It’s Christmas. He’s supposed to be happy. 

Stiles’ dad is acting weird. He pretends like the huge pinboard-gift isn’t there until Stiles has already opened his video games and TV-series he’s been wanting since last Christmas. His dad is really happy for his gifts, but his smile sort of fades when the pinboard-gift is the only one left at the tree. 

“Well, go ahead then,” he says and Stiles has to move his already opened gifts from his lap and walk the few steps to the monstrous thing leaning against the wall. He isn’t even sure he has wall-space enough to put this up. His dad must have been drunk when he bought it, even though he rarely drinks these days.  

When Stiles unwraps it, he suddenly knows why his dad has been acting weird around it, because it isn’t a pinboard. And it isn’t from Stiles’ dad. He knows even without turning it over, because there’s a small note on the back, with the words: _This is my best piece._

Stiles’ dad rises from his chair and hugs him tightly with one arm, as they turn it over together. And Stiles is staring back at himself. It’s not like the pieces at the exhibition, because this is just Stiles' face and it looks like he’s in the middle of a conversation with someone beyond the painting. He’s laughing and he looks silly. And judging by the way his dad’s hand tightens on his shoulder, he isn’t the only one fighting away tears. Because Stiles knows now that Derek was in love with him too back then. He remembers the way he felt a little hurt when Derek told him that Stiles’ piece wasn’t his best one. But this one is. And there’s not even a naked body on it. Just Stiles’ face. And he looks like he’s the happiest guy on the planet. Because Stiles in the painting didn’t know back then what he does now: that whatever happens, or whatever he feels, someone up there has set an expiration date on him and Derek. 

It’s strange, because even though Stiles wants to cry, the painting doesn’t do what he thought it would to him. It doesn’t make him crumble into a pile of hopelessness and snot running down his face. He just suddenly has Mrs. McCall’s speech so clear in his mind, that whatever kind of tumour it is that Derek has, _there’s always hope_. 

And Stiles’ dad must have known because Derek must have given him the painting when Stiles was away working. He looks at Stiles in a way that he hasn’t ever looked at him before, and there’s a lot of compassion and knowing there. It hits Stiles like a slap in the face that his dad already knows what it’s like losing that one person. 

“I need to go,” Stiles says and his dad just nods. He doesn’t even say that it’s Christmas and that you’re supposed to spend it with family. And then he kisses Stiles on the top of his head, and he hasn’t done that since Stiles was five. 

 


	3. Chapter 3

  
_Give me life, give me death_  
 _Or your biggest regrets,_  
 _I want everything._  
 _Show me your fears, show me your scars,_  
 _I’ll take whatever is left of your heart._  
 _Give me heaven, give me hell_  
 _All the dreams you try to sell,_  
 _I want your fears, your hopes,_  
 _The whole kaleidoscope_  
 _With you, with you  
_ _Kaleidoscope – The Script_  


Stiles isn’t sure that Derek is home, but he drives there anyway. He hopes though, which is the new thing he’s going to work with from now on. When he parks in his usual place, always on a safe no-scratching-paint-distance from Derek’s Camaro, he sees a pale, blue-ish light flickering through the living room window. Derek is watching TV apparently, and Stiles is a bit relieved because no one watches TV if they have visitors on Christmas. 

Derek opens the door, even before Stiles has made it up the few steps to the front porch. His face looks weary, but his eyes are awake and searching Stiles’ face, like he’s trying to understand what he’s doing there. 

Stiles stops in front of him and stares for a moment. Derek just stares back, waiting for him to speak. 

“You just don’t get to make me fall in love with you, and then decide that you don’t want to take the consequences.” 

Derek smiles at this. _Smiles._ Stiles has never seen Derek smile before. It’s both a heart-melting and heart-breaking sight. His front teeth are a little larger than the rest of them, giving him a much less intimidating appearance than usual and he looks years younger in an instant. Stiles wants to make him smile all the time. 

“Isn’t there anything they can do?” He’s still standing outside and it feels like if he walks in there now, there’s no way he’s ever going back. He watches Derek’s face close up a fraction, but not into his usual Stiles-scowl. It’s a bit of a relief. 

Derek hesitates for a long, long time before he looks down on his bare feet. “It’s not too late for surgery.” 

Stiles’ heart picks up in an instant, but he knows that there’s more Derek wants to say. Obviously there is more, because otherwise he wouldn’t have told Stiles that he was dying. 

“But?” Stiles presses. 

“But there’s a risk that I won’t be able to draw again afterwards. I still have a couple of months to decide, but I see no point in this if I can’t express myself.” 

With _this_ , he means living, Stiles figures. It's weird speaking about it the same way people talk about what they're going to eat for lunch. It doesn’t quiet his heart that still beats hard, like he’s been running here and not driven a car. There’s a strange swelling in his chest and all he can think of is that hope again. There are possibilities. It’s not completely over. Derek can change his mind. 

“I think that’s the longest thing you’ve said without insulting me.” Stiles smiles because he’s a bit afraid of saying all the things he wants to say. He glances past Derek into the house and for once it actually looks warm and inviting. 

“You’re an idiot,” Derek says, but there’s nothing but affection behind the words now. 

“That’s better.” Stiles grins and Derek smiles again. It’s a bit like all the heavy things in the world have gone a way, for a second. Stiles feels a little out of breath, as he realises that Derek has just smiled at him twice in just a few minutes. That’s twice more than he has ever smiled at Stiles before. He wouldn't be surprised if it's more than Derek has smiled ever before in his life either. 

“Can I come in?” he asks. He isn’t even sure if it’s a good idea, but he doesn’t want to go back to his dad and to the house where he has been crying for too many days. Plus, Derek is _here._

“Yeah.” Derek steps aside, making room for Stiles to walk past him. “Are you staying?” 

Stiles thinks that there’s a bit more to the question than just asking if he’s going to spend the night. Derek wants to know if he’s sticking around. All the way. 

“If you want me to,” he says and suddenly feels vulnerable and scared as he steps past Derek in the doorway. Derek’s hand trembles a little when he reaches out to pull Stiles close to him. Stiles can feel him nod against his cheek; Derek’s stubble burns his skin in the best of ways. 

“Yeah,” Derek whispers after a long silence, where Stiles has been breathing in the smell of his shirt greedily. “Yeah, I want you to stay.” 

When Stiles’ lips find Derek’s, it’s a bit more like Stiles imagined them kissing the first time; needy and rough. Like they’re trying to forget everything else. 

“Maybe you should tell your dad,” Derek says, slightly out of breath, and pulls away just an inch before his lips brush against Stiles’ again. 

Stiles doesn’t really want to talk about his dad right now, when he’s making out in Derek’s hallway and is at least half-hard, but he figures that Derek is right. It would be even more awkward if his dad showed up on the doorstep in a few hours, with the sirens turned on and wanting Stiles home. Especially if Stiles was un-dressed and Derek was too, preferably in a bed. Stiles wouldn’t put it past his dad to take his police car. When he sticks his hand into his jacket pocket, hunting for his phone, a bunch of condoms fall to the floor. Stiles stares and Derek stares and, _oh my god,_ those aren’t even the condoms Stiles bought. He’s going to kill his dad. 

“I, er, I guess he’s fine with it,” he remarks and flails to hide his blush. He’s still staring at the colourful packets that are spread across Derek’s doormat. 

Derek makes a sound that’s almost a chuckle and Stiles glares at him. 

“Maybe you should call him either way.” 

Derek closes the front door and disappears into the house, while Stiles calls his dad. It probably doesn’t qualify as talking, since it’s more Stiles saying that he’s not coming home and his dad telling him, in a very awkward voice, that Stiles should check his pockets. Stiles mutters angry things at him and tells him that he’s never been more embarrassed in his entire life. Stiles’ dad just says that if he’s having a problem with it, he can sleep at home. Suddenly, a thousand colourful condoms on Derek’s doormat aren’t all that bad, all things considered. It could be worse. His dad could have given him a folder with information about being gay (because Stiles isn’t sure that his dad knows the difference from being bisexual), or there could be a rainbow pin on his dad’s sheriff jacket with the words: _proud father._ Condoms really aren’t all that bad. Also, they can be put to good use.

Stiles stands in the hallway for a moment after hanging up. He looks at the closed front door and for, a short time, he contemplates leaving. It’s a bit terrifying to realise that this might not turn out like the fairy tales. A heavy lump weighs in the pit of his belly and he feels queasy for a few deep breaths, before he decides to search for Derek. Stiles finds him in the bedroom and the queasy feeling is instantly back again, but for a very different reason this time. Stiles has never really done anything sexual with anyone, if jerking off to porn doesn’t count. He’s pretty sure that it doesn’t. 

He hesitates as he stands in the doorway, weighing back and forth on the threshold. Derek is just taking his shirt off, back turned towards him, and he’s probably not even aware of Stiles standing there. It’s not like he’s obviously preparing for having sex (well, actually, Stiles doesn’t know if there are secret codes for that and if this is one of them, but he doesn’t think so), but Stiles’ palms are still hot and a little sweaty. 

He’s still trying to wipe his hands on his pants, when Derek looks up and notices him there, his eyebrows immediately rising. Stiles picks nervously on the seams to his pockets and tries to look everywhere but at Derek’s abs, which is something he never thought would happen. Ever. 

“You know, it’s not like I’ve ever…you know. So.” He blushes and flails, because it’s a lot easier than using the word _virgin_. 

“Yeah, I know,” Derek says and he doesn’t sound the least bit condescending over this. Not that Stiles knows why he would, but still. It makes him feel better. 

“You do?” he asks, surprised. 

“Yeah, it’s not that hard to guess.” 

Stiles isn’t sure if he’s supposed to be offended or not. He chooses not. “Oh, okay.” 

“We’re just going to sleep,” Derek reiterates, and just like that, Stiles can stop chewing the inside of his cheek. 

“Actually, that I’m really good at.” 

Derek smiles again. Stiles feels like his insides are melting. Derek even looks a little shy when he smiles. Stiles thinks that’s way better than homicidal. When Stiles starts unzipping his hoodie, Derek is suddenly there, helping him and this is the first time since Stiles was a child that anyone’s ever undressed him. It’s strangely intimate and he’s blushing all over his body when Derek removes one item of clothing after the other, even though Derek has already seen him naked more than once. 

Derek's fingers linger on the skin at his throat when he pushes the hoodie back from Stiles’ shoulders. Stiles closes his eyes, because if he doesn't look, the sensations just grow even stronger. He shudders when Derek's fingertips trail along his sides, as he pulls the hem of Stiles' shirt up over his stomach and then over his head. Then he traces the outline of Stiles’ throat through his skin, just gently and not at all intimidating, and Stiles just tips his head back and gives in. He has goose bumps all over his skin, when Derek's hands slide over his belly, slowly circling his bellybutton and then reaching down to unzip Stiles' jeans. Before he takes them off he, falls to his knees and makes Stiles stand on one foot at a time, taking his socks off. Stiles grabs Derek's shoulder and sways unsteadily for a moment, stepping out of his jeans. He looks down just in time to catch Derek slowly rub his stubble against the outside of Stiles' thigh. He can't stop a small sound before it slips out. 

“Are you going to undress me like this every time we're just going to sleep?” he asks and Derek just smirks, before he stands up and brushes their lips together. 

“Maybe,” he answers and kisses Stiles again. “Unless you mind.” 

If the situation in Stiles' underwear is anything to go by, he sure doesn't mind. “No,” Stiles breathes.

He lies down on his side of the bed – yeah, Stiles has already decided which side is his, even though he doesn’t really know where Derek usually sleeps – and watches Derek take his jeans off. It bugs him a little that Derek obviously isn’t as affected by this as Stiles is, but maybe that’s what seven years does to you. 

“Just a bit more kissing,” he says, when Derek slides under the covers and his almost-naked body is so close to Stiles’. He doesn’t really give Derek a chance to object, because he rises up on his elbows and accidentally bumps their noses together before he angles his head the right way. Derek puffs out air through his nose and then he’s kissing Stiles back, planting his hands on either side of Stiles’ body and Stiles’ thinks he can live his whole life with just kisses like these. 

He slides his hands into Derek’s hair and makes an embarrassing sound, as Derek’s teeth tug at his bottom lip. When Derek pulls away, they’re both out of breath and the situation in Stiles’ underwear is definitely worse than when they began and Derek actually _does_ have a situation in his, which is something Stiles finds incredibly pleasing. He’s a bit relieved that Derek isn’t pushing further. In all honesty, Stiles had been convinced that he would just hop on the first sex-train that happened to go by, but now that he has one waiting for him, he wants to stay at the station just a bit longer. Derek doesn’t seem to mind, judging by the way he nuzzles the skin just below Stiles’ ear, before pulling him close under the covers. Stiles is definitely okay with being the little spoon and it feels weirdly safe when he intertwines his fingers with Derek’s. 

He can feel Derek’s lips move against the nape of his neck and sighs, pressing closer as Derek’s hold tightens for a moment. His mind is reeling, which is strange since he doesn’t know how it’s getting oxygen at all considering his hard-on. It feels like he found out just yesterday that Derek wanted him too, which should’ve been the happiest day of his life if it wasn’t for the fact that he also found out that there’s a tumour somewhere in Derek’s brain. He just needs to convince Derek to change his mind, make him realise that there are other ways to express oneself. 

“Stiles,” Derek says and he sounds a little stern. “Stop thinking and go to sleep.”

For a moment Stiles contemplates arguing because really, how is he supposed to be able to sleep? But then Derek starts rubbing his belly in slow circles and Stiles can’t find it in him to ask Derek to stop, because it’s like all the scary thoughts have disappeared in a second. Instead he just nods and nestles back against Derek. 

When Stiles wakes up the next time, Derek is still curled around him. He’s all snuggly and warm against Stiles’ skin and he tightens his hold automatically when Stiles moves around to find a more comfortable position. His insides turns into hot mush when Derek mumbles something inaudible in his ear and he squirms a little bit, because he really needs to pee. 

“Don’t get up yet,” Derek mumbles against his neck, when Stiles squirms again. 

“Need to pee,” Stiles says and wants to kill his bladder for being so inconvenient. 

“Hurry back.” Derek lets him go and Stiles hurries out of bed and over the cold floors to the bathroom. The tiles there are warm against the soles of his feet and he wants to thank the person who invented floor heating. He’s grateful that Derek is like a furnace, because otherwise Stiles would probably stay in here all day. He takes a quick detour to the kitchen to check the time and makes his throat less dry with a mouthful of water straight from the tap. It’s not even six AM, which is awesome because he wants to spend as many hours in bed with Derek as possible. 

When he walks back into the bedroom, Derek cracks an eye open and lifts the covers in an invitation. It’s so warm beneath them, that Stiles can’t stop himself from sighing as Derek tucks him in. 

“We should go back to sleep,” Derek mumbles, but his lips are already on Stiles’ neck. 

“Yeah, definitely,” Stiles agrees, but not really, because he very much likes Derek’s mouth on him. 

“In a while,” Derek amends and Stiles doesn’t care all that much about sleep when Derek flops him over on his back and kisses him like he wasn’t asleep a few minutes ago. 

“You need to tell me if there’s something you don’t like,” Derek says and Stiles has no idea what he’s talking about, until Derek’s hand is sliding up the inside of his thigh. Stiles only manages to nod jerkily before he closes his eyes and lets Derek kiss him again. 

Derek’s hands are knowing and sure and he makes Stiles shudder by doing nothing other than trace the outline of his cock through his underwear. Stiles’ hips jerk, even though he tries to keep them down and he doesn’t even care that Derek is sucking bruises to his neck, because it feels _so good_. 

He flails a bit, unsure of where to put his hands, but Derek moves slowly, helps him out by placing them where he wants them. Stiles is grateful for that, because his brain stops functioning all together when Derek begins palming him through his underwear. He gives up on controlling his hips and spreads his legs willingly when Derek nudges them apart with his knees. A moan slips past his lips and his body curls upwards when Derek grounds their hips together for the first time. Stiles tries to stave it off, he really does, but in his defence he has about zero previous experiences when it comes to anything remotely sexual. By the time Derek grinds down on him for the third time, Stiles’ toes curl painfully and he comes in his own underwear, shuddering and clinging to Derek. 

He opens one eye carefully, as colour rises quickly to his cheeks. He closes it quickly again when he catches a glimpse of Derek’s stupid smile. “Sorry,” he whispers and hides his face in his hands. “I really did plan on making that last longer.” 

It isn’t very hard for Derek to pry his hands away, considering the fact that he probably has at least fifty pounds worth of muscle on Stiles. It’s even harder for Stiles to put up some sort of resistance, when Derek kisses him like Stiles didn’t ruin everything just a moment ago. 

“Stiles,” Derek says quietly and the way his lips slide slowly along Stiles’ jaw makes him shudder. 

“I’ve gone deaf,” he tries, still refusing to open his yes. 

When Derek breathes hot air into his ear though, along with his name once more, it’s a bit more difficult. 

“What?” he sighs. 

“It’s okay.” 

Stiles looks up at him and tries to ignore the pleased look on Derek’s face. “You honestly put that much into saying it’s okay, instead of just spitting it out?” 

Derek just kisses him again and Stiles doesn’t like to admit it but he melts. Completely. 

He's still embarrassed and feeling a little gross (especially in the underwear-area) when Derek rolls him over on his side and spoons him. Stiles isn't entirely sure if he's supposed to feel this good to be manhandled into whatever position Derek likes him in the most. It should probably bother him more than it does. At first, it's hard to concentrate on sleeping when he feels like he should return the favour, but Derek obviously isn't interested in that, since he's just nuzzling Stiles' neck like he's ready to sleep again. Despite his hard-on. 

Somehow Stiles manages to fall asleep anyway, because when he wakes up the sun is shining through the window. He rolls over on his back and realises that he's alone in bed. It's a bit of a disappointment because he would very much like to try and beat his one second-record from last night right now. Wincing at the feeling of his kind of gross underwear, he gets out of bed and exchanges them for a pair of Derek's sweats that he finds in the top drawer of the dresser. Derek probably minds Stiles going through his things and taking his clothes, but he figures that it's better to ask for forgiveness than permission. 

Something cold grabs a hold of his insides when he steps into the kitchen. It's like the worst kind of déjà vu. Derek is sitting fully clothed in the kitchen, reading a book, much like the last time Stiles slept in Derek's bed. He stops, feeling his heart speed up dangerously and he feels a little faint. Then Derek suddenly looks up and Stiles is very sure that magic exists, because everything changes in a second. A corner of Derek's mouth tugs upwards and Stiles' heart rate slows dramatically. A half-hysterical laugh just sort of slips out before he's able to stop it, and Derek raises one eyebrow. 

“You scared me a little bit,” Stiles blurts and shoves his hands into the pockets of the sweats.  He feels stupid because things are so very different this time around. He also feels awkward being shirtless when Derek, who has perfect abs, is fully clothed. He flickers his gaze from everything to anything that isn't Derek who rises from his chair and walks over to where Stiles is standing. Actually, it's not really to where Stiles is standing, but more towards the kitchen counter right next to him. Derek fills a coffee cup, before pressing it into Stiles' hand. 

“I didn't want to wake you.” 

There isn't a kiss, but the way Derek's thumb brushes gently over Stiles' index finger is enough to make his heart do a double take. He probably shouldn't tell anyone that unless he wants to be bullied for the rest of his life. 

“Thanks,” Stiles says and holds the cup tightly in his hands until his palms feel like they're burning. He sits down across from Derek, who has already gone back to his book. It's weird because even though Stiles already knew that Derek has books and that he can read, he just didn't think Derek was a reader. 

“Is it distracting if I talk while you read?” he asks when Derek has been quiet for too long. 

“Yes.” 

Stiles drinks his coffee in silence. Honestly, he's pretty generous with silence right now. “So,” he says slowly when the cup is finally empty. “What are the plans for today?” 

Derek shrugs and puts a pen in the book to mark the page before he closes it. “Are you staying?”

Stiles is just about to say yes when he realises that it's the 26th. He glances at the clock on the kitchen wall. It's almost noon, and he should be home with his dad already. They never do anything special on the 26th – they barely even talk – but Stiles can't let his dad be alone the day his mother died. 

“No, I can't,” he says and there's a glint of worry in Derek's eyes suddenly. Maybe he's thinking that Stiles wants out. A part of Stiles really does want out, but the rest of him already knows it's too late. “I have to be with my dad. It's...yeah, my mother died today.” 

It's strange because it looks like Derek just got slapped in the face, but he quickly gets his facial muscles under control and scratches the back of his head. Even if Stiles hadn't caught the first initial shocked expression on his face, the head-scratching gesture is so out of character for Derek that he would have known something was wrong either way. 

“I didn't know it was today,” Derek says finally and his voice is so very quiet. 

“Yeah, I didn't tell you, so.” Stiles shrugs. He isn't sure why there's suddenly so much tension in the room. “I just need to hang out with my dad and stuff.” 

It isn't until Derek scratches the back of his head again that his brain manages to connect all the dots. It's strange. Somewhere beneath Derek's fingers, there's something eating him away. Stiles isn't prepared for the way his throat tightens and how tears suddenly burn behind his eyes. When Derek looks up, it's like he knows exactly what Stiles is thinking. 

“Why can't they guarantee that you'll be able to draw again?” he asks carefully. He knows that Derek doesn't want to talk about this. It's painfully obvious with the way Derek frowns a little, but Stiles _needs_ to know. It's not like Derek will ever bring him to any of his doctor's appointments, so he has to ask. 

“It's a brain surgery,” Derek says stiffly, like it's supposed to explain everything. 

“And?” Stiles presses. 

“It's complex.” Derek looks like he wants to glare, but knows he shouldn't. “They could damage something by mistake. I could get permanent problems with coordination, or my hands might never stop shaking. I wouldn't be able to draw like I need to.” 

Stiles bites his lip when Derek says that he _needs_ to draw, rather than _wants._ “Okay,” he says, nodding slowly. “But they don't know for _certain_ that they'll damage something, do they?” 

“Of course not. Usually things work out fine.” Derek shrugs like this is bullshit to his ears. Thinking about it, he probably thinks it is. “But they can't promise that it won't happen either.” 

“There's no way I'm letting you choose to die,” Stiles says and his voice is much thicker than he expected. Derek's face closes up a little, but he doesn't look away. 

“It's not really a choice, Stiles. Art is all I have.” 

“You have me, too.” 

He knows Derek is just about to make the whole _you're only eighteen, Stiles_ -speech again, but then he just nods and his face grows a little softer around its sharp edges. Stiles takes this as some kind of permission to make Derek change his mind. Maybe that's what he's wanted from the beginning – someone to make him change his mind. Someone like Stiles, who's too stubborn to let go. 

 Derek makes him a proper breakfast and kisses him for a long, long time in the foyer before he lets Stiles go home. He checks his phone with the key still not turned in the ignition. There are like a zillion texts from Scott and Isaac. At first, they're asking what he's up to, and then wondering if he's with Derek, only to send another hundred or so asking him what he's doing with Derek and when he's coming home. Something tells Stiles that his dad might have told them. There isn't a single one from his dad though, so Stiles' conscience feels better in an instant. 

When he looks up, just as he's turning the key to the ignition, he notices Derek still standing in the doorway looking at him. He raises his hand and feels a bit lame, before Derek does the same. He sees Derek walk back in and close the front door, in the rearview mirror as he drives away, and isn't sure what he's supposed to feel. Worry is making his stomach feel queasy, but the next moment it's exchanged for determination and then the fuzzy, warm feeling of knowing that Derek actually likes him too. 

* * *

His dad is flipping through photo albums when Stiles walks through the door. 

“I'm sorry, dad,” he says quietly and sits down on the kitchen chair next to his dad. Instead of getting the lecture he half-expected, his dad just hugs him close with one arm and kisses the top of his head again. They spend the evening looking at photos of Stiles' mom and sharing memories. It makes it a lot harder than usual knowing that he might be looking at photos of Derek soon, but he doesn't want to think about it. 

“So he's admitted that he likes you now?” his dad asks as he closes the third album and Stiles props his mouth full with leftover candy from yesterday. He didn't really have time to eat it all then, because of the Derek situation, so he makes up for it now. 

“Yeah,” he answers and can't stop a silly smile from spreading over his face. 

“He's still too old for you,” his dad mutters, but if he's willing to make sure that Stiles got that painting from Derek yesterday, stuff his pockets full of condoms and then be fine with Stiles spending the night there, there's probably no need to fear for Derek's life. 

“He could still have surgery,” Stiles blurts before he can stop himself. And then the words just rush out of him, because it feels so good to tell someone. He needs to. “He says that he still has a couple of months to decide if he wants surgery, but he doesn't want it because the doctor says there's a risk that he won't be able to draw anymore. I want to persuade him. Well, I'm going to.” 

“Son, that's a decision Derek has to make for himself,” his dad says and he sounds so serious that Stiles stares at him. “I agree with you, I do, I think he should go through with the surgery, but he has to make a decision like that on his own.” 

“I can't just let him choose to die.” 

“I know.” His dad ruffles his hair and pushes the candy bowl closer to Stiles. “Something will turn up.” 

“Yeah.” Even if it doesn't, Stiles will have to _make_ something turn up. He reaches out after the fourth album and balances it on his lap as he flips it open. 

* * *

It's late when Stiles drives over to Scott's the next evening. He feels like he has neglected Scott for too long. Plus, Scott must have texted more yesterday than he has ever done before in his entire life, so Stiles has to reward him in some way. 

Scott looks him over from head to toe in the doorway and ignores Stiles when he wants to walk past him into the house. “So, you're a man now?”

“Oh my god, Scott,” Stiles hisses. He knows Mrs. McCall is home and this is awkward. “No.”

“No?” Scott echoes and he sounds so disbelieving that Stiles laughs nervously. Coming too soon in his own underwear isn't something he'd like to mention even to Scott. 

Scott's eyes narrow like he suspects that Stiles isn't entirely honest with him, so Stiles resolves to simply push him out of the way and walks up to Scott's room on his own. It's a bit of a surprise when Allison isn't there, but it's a relief too. He likes her a lot, he really does, but right now he needs Scott as a friend and not as the creepy guy who doesn't mind making Stiles the third wheel by making out with Allison while they're all in the same room. 

It takes a couple of minutes before Scott follows him, but it's definitely worth the wait when he brings snacks with him. 

“Tell me,” Scott urges, as soon as they're sitting in the couch and violently press buttons to save their lives (and end each other's). 

“About the part where you think I'm lying about not being a man, or like the whole story?” 

Scott makes a gagging sound, but Stiles doesn't care because he's had to _watch_ Scott stick his tongue down Allison's throat and that's _way_ worse than this. Instead of pointing it out, he tells Scott about the drawing, about the note (and if he isn't mistaken, Scott actually gets a little glossy eyed at that part) and then about him driving over to Derek's and how it's all some kind of Nicholas Sparks' movie now, because he is so, so happy and so scared. 

“So he can have surgery? He's not doomed?” Scott questions, and ignores the part in Derek's bed where Stiles failed to become a man. His promise to himself not to share that part with Scott obviously didn't last very long. At least Scott didn't put his fingers in his ears and start singing, Stiles will give him that. 

“It's just that he doesn't want to, because art is all he has.” 

“He has you, too,” Scott says and Stiles wants to hug him, glad that he isn't the only one realising this. 

“Yeah,” he agrees and decides to be a little more mature in his thinking than starting to obsess over why it isn't enough for Derek to just have Stiles in his life. “I think it's just that he needs a way to express himself.”

“What, he can speak, right?” Scott frowns and Stiles wants to groan loudly until he notices the little twitch of Scott's mouth that always gives him away when he's trying to be funny. 

Stiles settles with just: “You're an idiot.” 

Scott keeps frowning and judging from the way he doesn't even try to escape Stiles' head-cutting, it's pretty clear that he's actually thinking hard for real this time. “I'll help you think of something.” 

Even though Scott really isn't the greatest person when it comes to a thing like thinking, Stiles has to take a deep breath to get rid of the lump in his throat, because Scott is doing this without even having to be convinced. 

He's just about to say thanks when the buzzing from his phone in his pocket distracts him. He doesn't feel like his heart is a traitor for doing a back flip in his chest anymore when he sees that it's from Derek. It has permission now. They haven't spoken since last night, when Stiles sent a short text from bed and only got a _good night_ in return. 

**_You OK?_ **

He frowns a little bit. It's an unexpected question. A part of him wants to say no when he thinks of their situation. There's just no way that he can ever be okay with Derek having a brain tumour. Another part of him says that things could be worse. He suspects that Derek asks because he isn't sure if Stiles has had time to change his mind overnight.While Stiles has spent time with his dad and now Scott, Derek has probably been all alone and if that was Stiles, he would've been thinking way too much. 

**_Yeah, all things considered. You?_ **

It also makes him a little happy that Derek responds within seconds, unlike before when Stiles had to wait forever to get a response. Maybe Derek doesn't have to think as much about his answers anymore because he doesn't have to remind himself not to lead Stiles on. 

**_Yes._ ** ****

Stiles gets this weird feeling in his belly that Derek contemplated writing something else but didn't, and now he's way too curious to let it go. 

**_But?_ **

It takes much longer for Derek to answer this time and Stiles manages to kill Scott twice before he gets a reply. He imagines that Derek has probably been thinking over this answer a lot more than the previous one, when he sees it:

**_It's a bit empty._ **

Scott reads the text over his shoulder and he tries to be subtle, but honestly, Stiles can feel his breath against his ear. 

“What's a bit empty?” Scott asks immediately. 

“His house I assume,” Stiles sighs. At least he thinks that's what Derek is referring to. It's seems most logical that his house would feel empty now that Stiles isn't there. Or maybe his bed.

“What? Like without you?”

“Yes.” Stiles rolls his eyes. 

“Oh.” Scott is silent for a long time and he's still leaning over Stiles' shoulder. “Well go there, then.” 

“I'm with you now, he can wait.” Stiles doesn't want to be like Scott, who doesn't follow the bro-code at all and always puts hoes before bros. He hopes that Allison never finds out that Stiles has been thinking about her in that term. However, Stiles can kind of understand the temptation in leaving Scott for Derek right now. Especially if it involves activities where he can beat his previous staving-off-orgasm record. 

“Yeah, but I can go to Allison's. I know how to climb through her window.” 

“Oh my god, you're just like Edward Cullen.” Maybe Stiles should be worried about how often he relates his life to Twilight. 

“At least _I'm_ not a stalker,” Scott replies, like it's going to win every discussion. It sort of does, actually, but Stiles isn't going to admit that. 

“Well, this time, stalking turned out pretty good,” he shrugs and Scott shakes his head like he thinks Stiles is an idiot. 

“Yeah, whatever. Just go there.” 

“You sure it's okay?”

“Yeah dude, I get to go to my girlfriend.” 

“Oh wow, you're such a good friend, Scott, really.” 

Stiles doesn't _really_ complain. In truth, he's actually kind of pleased with having Scott's blessing to go to Derek's. He doesn't have to feel like a bad friend when it's not even his idea to begin with. He hurries to type a text to Derek, so that he doesn't turn up completely unannounced. 

**_Can I come over?_ ** ****

It takes less than a moment before his phone buzzes. 

**_Yes._ **

He drops off Scott down the road to Allison's (because her dad will surely think it's suspicious if Scott's car is parked by the curb even though he hasn't walked through the front door) and he sends a text to his dad saying that he'll stay at Derek's again. Hopefully he won't get a phone call or an angry father standing on Derek's doorstep. He doesn't think so. It was okay earlier. Somewhere Stiles' dad is probably kind of okay with Derek. He just doesn't want to admit it, because if he does, then he's going to feel like an irresponsible father. Stiles thinks he's awesome. 

The pale light from the TV is flickering in Derek's living room windows this night too. Stiles kind of likes it, since it makes the house look a lot less scary. It also tells him that Derek is probably awake and Stiles doesn't want to stand out there, knocking on the door without being let in, if Derek is asleep somewhere. On the other hand, it would be kind of a dick-move for Derek to invite him over and then go to sleep before he arrived. 

It takes like five seconds from the moment Stiles punches the door bell to the moment  Derek opens the door. Stiles wants to eat him. Holy shit. He looks like he's just showered.  His hair is wet and dripping down his chest and belly, and he's wearing nothing but boxer briefs. 

“Oh my god,” Stiles breathes and Derek looks a little smug for a moment. 

“Does your dad know you're here?” Derek asks instead and effectively kills every naughty thought Stiles had by mentioning his dad. 

“Yes,” Stiles glares at him. 

“Good, because I don't want to get interrupted.” 

And just like that, all the naughty thoughts are back in Stiles' head and he lets out a shaky breath. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah,” Derek echoes and steps aside to let him in. Stiles mostly wants to climb him like a tree. Right here on the front porch would work fine, too. 

“You're really hot,” Stiles blurts when he's standing in the foyer, kicking off his shoes. His gaze is glued to Derek's ass as he's locking the door. Stiles doesn't even have the decency to blush when Derek turns around and catches him doing it. 

He looks so smug, that all the muscles in Stiles' belly tightens. 

“Are you hungry?” Derek asks and Stiles wants to glare, because this isn't dirty talk. 

“No, I ate a thousand pounds worth of snacks at Scott's. I'm good.” He makes an embarrassing sound when Derek slips a hand up under his shirt and rubs his belly. Stiles wants to ask if Derek thinks he's a dog or something, but he's too pleased with having Derek's hands on him again that he keeps quiet. 

“Yeah?” Derek slides his hands up Stiles' sides and it tickles all the way to his toes. He just manages to nod jerkily in reply. “Bed?”

Stiles kisses him in response and moves willingly, when Derek starts backing him down the hall. In secret, he's pleased with himself for not even tripping once. He fumbles all over Derek's body and isn't really sure where to let his hands make a delay, way too caught up in touching everything except anything below the waistband of Derek's underwear. He's still too insecure to go there on his own, though he'd very much like to try. 

He knows that Derek already knows how limited his experience is, and it makes things easier. For some reason, Stiles still feels like he needs to point it out. As he tries to take a step back and create a little space between them, the back of his legs hit the edge of the bed and he falls backwards, flailing. 

Derek looks down at him and quirks an eyebrow. Stiles doesn't think it's fair that Derek can ask questions without using words, because Stiles usually uses too many words and rarely even gets the question out. 

“I just need to say something. Like before we-” he gesticulates wildly between them, “- you know, _proceed_.” 

“Okay,” Derek nods. 

“So, I just want to make it clear that I haven't done _anything_. Er, except for what we did a couple of days ago. Actually, that doesn't really count, does it? I mean because I...you know, yeah...” he trails off as soon as he realises that he's rambling nonsense way too fast again.

“Stiles,” Derek says and then he's leaning over Stiles. “Shut up.” 

Any protest that Stiles had in mind sort of disappears with the way Derek kisses him next. It's slow, but still rough in a way that makes Stiles shudder and gasp for breath whenever Derek pulls away a fraction. He digs his fingers into the bare skin of Derek's back, pulling him close and then even closer. A disappointed groan slips out of him when Derek pulls back, despite Stiles' attempt to drag him closer. 

“No,” he manages, slightly out of breath. “More. Come back.” 

Derek just smiles and Stiles forgets all about kissing, when Derek pushes his shirt up his stomach. Stiles hurries to pull it over his head, not wasting any time on undressing. He gets stuck with one arm for a moment and just barely catches the hungry look Derek gives him. That isn't supposed to make Stiles want to groan out loud, but it's suddenly very difficult to keep the sound in. 

“Oh my god,” he breathes when Derek runs his hands all over his upper body. It's like his fingers find sensitive spots that Stiles didn't know he even had. He's already uncomfortably hard, pressing against the zipper of his pants and he just wants to take them off. 

It's so warm. The room, Derek's body, his own skin. Stiles lets his hands wander, explore. He doesn't even care about the embarrassing sounds he lets out when Derek's lips start to travel down his chest and belly. _Oh god._ Stiles thinks he knows where this is going and all he can think about is Derek's mouth getting closer and closer to the waistband of his jeans, and the strong hands slowly sliding up and down his thighs. 

He falls back against the bed and closes his eyes, determined to last a lot longer this time around. He can't stop touching Derek's hair, or neck, or shoulders, but it's a great distraction when Derek starts mouthing him through his jeans and a high-pitched keen breaks the sound of their heavy breathing. 

Stiles doesn't dare to look down. It's almost too good already and Derek's just pulling down the zipper of his pants. All he can think is that _holy shit,_ this is really happening. To Stiles. 

He holds his breath when Derek pulls his jeans and underwear off and then he suddenly can't do anything but breathe because Derek's mouth is on his cock. Stiles fists the sheets and feels his whole body tense as Derek's tongue slowly grazes the head of his cock. It's like his whole body starts to collapse and Stiles just tries to breathe through it. _Really loud._ Along with a number of other sounds that are too embarrassing to even think of. 

Derek seems pleased though, because he groans as he slowly sucks Stiles into his mouth and everything is warm and wet and so, _so_ good. He finds Derek's hair with one hand again, but the other still strangles the sheets. He's sure that if he lets go, he's going to lose it completely. 

Then he does. Suddenly. It's not because he lets go of the sheets, but because Derek suddenly takes all of him. _All of him_. And a loud sound just stutters out of him and he comes, hips curling upwards against Derek's hands that hold him down against the mattress. He doesn't even get the chance to give some kind of warning. 

His body just keeps shuddering even as Derek pulls his underwear up and kisses him. It's so wrong and so incredibly hot when Stiles realises that he's tasting himself in Derek's mouth. 

“Oh my god,” he breathes as Derek nuzzles his neck. “Oh my god.” 

He doesn't even have the energy to verbalise all the thoughts in his head. It takes a few moments before his brain cells start interacting with each other again, but when they do, he realises that Derek is still hard and pressing against his thigh. 

In an instant, his insecurities have gone to Narnia, and he pushes Derek down on his back before climbing on top of him. Derek looks like he isn't sure if Christmas has come for a second time this year. Stiles isn't as thorough as Derek, mainly because he's impatient to see what Derek's dick actually looks like. Derek's skin tastes salty from sweat and something else Stiles can't place but likes very much. What's even better is the sounds Derek makes when Stiles kneels between his legs and tries to mimic the mouthing through underwear. If the way Derek's cock twitches in anything to go by, he isn't half bad. 

Stiles just can't stop watching him and it makes it difficult to pull Derek's underwear down, but he manages somehow, with a little extra help from Derek. Stiles stares for a moment and he knows Derek is watching him, he can _feel_ it, but still he can't stop staring. It's big and feels warm and a bit heavy in his hand as he strokes it slowly, trying his best to do what he likes the most on himself. 

Derek lets out a low sound when Stiles accidentally tightens his hand, so he does it again. He gets a little braver when Derek's breathing starts getting heavier and louder. His own cock twitches in his underwear when Derek gasps, as Stiles rubs his thumb over the head again. 

He steadies himself with one hand on the mattress and bends down to swirl his tongue the same way he just moved his thumb, and he sort of moans when Derek does, as all his muscles tense and relax. The skin is so soft against his lips, as he slowly brushes his mouth down the length and sticks his tongue out to taste along the way. It's not unpleasant. Not at all.

“Cover your teeth,” Derek says quietly when Stiles returns to the head, stroking his hand down, preparing to take Derek's cock into his mouth. And he does, and it feels strange and so amazingly hot when he slowly sucks it in a little deeper. He tries rubbing his tongue over the vein on the underside and Derek _moans_. Yeah, Stiles _definitely_ won't stop doing that. 

“Stiles,” Derek gasps out, but it doesn't sound like he wants him to stop. 

It becomes a bit like a challenge for Stiles as he tries taking more and more into his mouth. Maybe he wouldn't be so keen on it if the sounds Derek is making weren't so hot. He tries sucking harder, making his cheeks hollow, and Derek's makes a strangled sound, his hips bucking off the bed, causing Stiles pull back and cough. 

“Sorry,” Derek groans and his hand rests heavily on Stiles' shoulder. “Please do that again.” 

“It's funny how you're polite when you want me to suck your dick,” Stiles grins and Derek's death glare isn't even a little scary. Actually, Stiles feels like the most powerful person in the world. 

The position is awkward and the angle too, but Stiles doesn't care as he takes Derek into his mouth again, sucking hard. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” Derek groans and his fingers tighten harshly on Stiles shoulder. It feels so good. 

It's mostly an experiment. He has basically no idea what he's doing, but he tries every idea that pops into his head and then he keeps repeating the ones that Derek seems to like most. 

Derek lets out a long stream of curse words when Stiles tries sucking on the head of his cock hard, stroking the rest of it with his hand. Derek's combs through his hair, but he doesn't push and even though his hips jerk a little, they remain on the mattress. 

Stiles doesn't even care that his back hurts from the weird position, or that his lips are sore, because the look on Derek's face, the way his muscles in his belly contracts and the sounds that comes out of his mouth, all makes up for it. 

“Going to come,” Derek moans suddenly and Stiles pulls away, but keeps on stroking. He looks down at Derek, the way his chest is heaving and muscles quivering, and the way his head is tilted back just a bit, with his eyes closed. 

His hand twists in Stiles' hair and his hips jerk up into Stiles' hand as he comes, shooting thick, white lines over his stomach and the sound he makes causes Stiles to whine. He strokes Derek until he starts going soft and looks at the come on his stomach. If Derek swallowed his a moment ago, Stiles is willing to give it a try. He leans down and licks experimentally. It tastes strange, maybe a bit bitter, but it isn't bad, definitely not bad. 

“Come here,” Derek rasps and strong hands pull him up. Derek kisses him slowly and quite gently, making Stiles a bit grateful for coming just a short while ago or he would be hard all over again. 

“It wasn't that bad, was it?” he breathes when Derek gently pushes him down on his back. 

“No,” Derek agrees and tugs up his underwear again, much to Stiles' dismay. “Tired?” 

“Don't know yet,” Stiles confesses. “I'm still too mind-blown to think.” 

Derek laughs quietly and Stiles tries to remember if he's ever heard Derek's laugh before. It's his new favourite sound. 

It turns out that Stiles isn't tired at all, even though it's in the middle of the night, but they stay in bed. He talks a lot and Derek listens without telling him to shut up even once. Post orgasm-bliss is apparently something that works for Derek. At first Stiles just rambles about nothing special, but then the subject sort of shifts to his mom and it's very strange that he wants to talk about her with Derek, because Stiles doesn't want to talk about her with anyone. It gets easier when Derek opens up a little bit and shares information about his family that Stiles kind of already knew, since he read Derek's file at the station, but it's very different like this. Derek hasn't really shared much about himself before. 

It's even more strange when Derek falls asleep before Stiles does, lying on his side with the pillow securely between his hand and ear, and no cover. Stiles' can't stop his heart from aching slightly, as he reaches down and pulls the sheets over both of them. 

* * *

 

Stiles spends most of his New Years Eve with his friends, but just in time for midnight, he stands on Derek's front porch getting the kiss of his life. And then Derek goes down on him right there, beneath all the fireworks from the town and Stiles doesn't even mind the cold, because Derek's mouth is so amazingly warm. 

It's easy to forget that there's a big black hole in their lives and that it's threatening to swallow them both. Mostly, they just pretend that it isn't there when they're with each other, but every moment Stiles isn't at Derek's, he's searching for ways to enable Derek's work even if he won't be able to draw in the future. There's no way he's just sitting back and allowing Derek to choose something other than surgery. It isn't until he meets Matt from school, whose obsession with Allison was a little on the creepy side, that he knows what to do. Because Matt's a photographer and that's definitely art. Cameras are good because even if Derek's hands won't ever work properly again, no matter for what reason, he could use a tripod for the extra stability.

“Could you teach me the basics? It's for someone else, but I really need your help,” he asks and gives Matt his cappuccino for free. Bribery has always been one of Stiles' strong suits. 

Matt looks at him, thinking this over, and then he nods. “Okay. If I get free coffee for three months.” 

Stiles agrees to that without hesitation. He's even willing to lose his job if it means that Derek will choose to go through with the surgery. They haven't talked about it at all, but Stiles knows that if he doesn't act fast, he's going to miss the date and it will be too late. He's not giving up on this. 

He decides not to tell Derek about it until he's sure that he's able to teach the basics, and Matt is a surprisingly good instructor. Stiles just feels like he has to be the one doing it to get Derek to understand. When Stiles explains the situation, Matt even tells him that he can borrow his analogue system camera. Sometimes going all Oprah on people seems to work perfectly. 

His dad is a bit displeased with the way Stiles has started to spend more nights at Derek's than at home, so he makes a new rule: Stiles has to sleep in his own bed if he works the morning shift the next day. He feels like a traitor because it's a bit of a relief to get a break from all the intensity Derek brings to the situation. Stiles doesn't really mind getting increasingly awesome at giving head, or getting them, and he really likes being with Derek. It's just that it's nice to get a chance to breathe and allow himself to feel worried and sad on occasion. He's pretty sure Derek likes going around being grumpy by himself every now and then, too. 

It also gives him time to practice the mechanics of photography. He isn't very skilled at actually taking good photos, but that probably has more to do with Stiles generally lacking talent in the artsy area, rather than Matt being a bad teacher. Stiles actually knows a lot about the mechanics now, enough to teach Derek the basics, at least according to Matt. Even though he's a creeper, Stiles decides to trust him on this. It's not like he has all that much time left to work something else out. 

He practically runs from work that Friday afternoon, bag slung over his shoulder, when Isaac comes to send him home. He has no reason to run, since he's going to spend the entire weekend at Derek's with his dad's permission. They haven't seen each other all week, but Derek isn't home until later anyway, so Stiles is practically hurrying towards an empty house. Derek has given him a key. A god damn key. Stiles sometimes wonders if he's gotten married without even knowing it, but according to Derek it's just so that Stiles won't have to stand outside and wait for him while he's away giving an interview.

It's strange seeing the house dark and knowing that Derek isn't there. He still punches the door bell and waits for almost a minute, before he fishes up the key from his pocket and lets himself in. Derek is only one person and he isn't the most talkative or loud one per se, but it still feels so incredibly lonely being in there without him. 

Stiles takes the opportunity to wander, because Derek rarely lets him. Sometimes it arouses the suspicion that there are dead bodies in the basement, or five children somewhere in a room that Derek hasn't told him about. Stiles only finds a bunch of empty rooms, some sort of storage room for Derek's art supplies, another room containing only a lonely easel, standing by itself in the middle of the floor, surrounded by nothing but large windows. He stares for a moment, because the view makes it clear why Derek has chosen this as his place to draw. It's bright and open, yet secluded somehow, with the woods and a small lake stretching outside the windows. Stiles wants to sit there and drink tea in an armchair, while Derek is drawing, even though he doesn't like tea. It's just _that_ kind of room. 

There's no canvas on the easel and that makes him want to leave. He's sure that Derek used to draw in here, when he wasn't using a room at the art institute. Now he doesn't, clearly. Stiles wants to slam the door closed, but he just lets it fall shut quietly.

It's in the basement he finds the perfect space to build a darkroom. There are no windows and it's large enough to fit a counter to place the different trays on. Matt has told him about this, how he thinks that maybe Derek would appreciate printing his own photographs and Stiles really likes that idea. He hopes Derek does, too. 

A few hours later, Stiles sits on the kitchen counter and eats Chinese food from a carton. Derek sits at the kitchen table and eats from a plate. Stiles isn't entirely sure why he said that Derek was the one eating like a pig a while ago. 

“I've been thinking about something,” he says quietly. It's a bit like jumping without being sure that the bungee jump thing is attached, but he really needs to tell Derek about the whole photography thing now. 

“Mm?” Derek asks and even though he looks like he's trying to come off as disinterested, he's watching Stiles intently now. 

“Yeah.” Stiles swallows the bite in his mouth slowly. “How do you feel about photography?” 

Derek looks at him for a long moment and Stiles' hand has stopped halfway to his mouth. He's glad that Derek can't hear how his heart is stuttering in his chest. 

“I don't know. I haven't really tried it.” Derek shrugs and Stiles' heart flips because Derek isn't dismissing the idea immediately and that's a big thing coming from Derek. 

“Actually, I've been thinking that you should. I could teach you.” He dangles his feet a little and looks down into his carton, picking on the chicken there with interest. 

“You know how to photograph?” 

“I decided to learn so, you know, I could teach you.” He shrugs and pushes the food around with his fork. The sound of Derek's chair scraping against the floor makes him wince. It sounds rushed and is therefore probably angry. Maybe he should have asked first and decided to bribe Matt into teaching him second. 

He looks up in surprise when Derek takes the carton from his hands and places it on the counter-top next to Stiles. Then he grabs Stiles' hips and pulls him to the very edge of the counter, with one leg on either side of Derek. 

Stiles stares at him and Derek sort of stares back, like he's surprised too. Probably for a completely different reason, though. 

“You learned how to photograph so you could teach me? Even though I could've just taken a class?” 

“Yeah.” Stiles grimaces. Because _duh._ “I know, I hear how stupid it sounds now too.”

“Stiles,” Derek says, and his voice is soft. 

“I just really like spending time with you and, like, I'm really scared, okay? I know we pretend like it's not here, like it doesn't exist, but I'm fucking scared.” 

Derek's hold of his hips tighten and Stiles loses his breath just a little. He doesn't realise that he's crying until Derek wipes the tears away with his thumbs. 

“I'm scared too,” he says and it's like Stiles' heart is splitting into two. At the same time, a lot of his fears seem to calm down from hearing Derek saying it out loud. “I'm scared too,” Derek repeats, and then he kisses Stiles like his heart is crackling too. 

They end up on the couch, watching another weather catastrophe on the other side of the planet and Stiles curls up next to Derek and ignores the fact that it's completely lame. No one needs to know. 

“Stiles,” Derek whispers and Stiles just tightens his grip on Derek's shirt to tell him that he's listening. “Thank you.” 

Stiles cranes his neck, looking up. Even though Derek is much less grumpy towards him now, he still rarely says thanks. “For what?” 

“For wanting to teach me. I'd like that a lot.” 

And then Stiles doesn't care that he's eighteen and way too old for this, he just rolls on top of Derek and hugs him close with both arms and legs, pressing his face against Derek's neck so he won't notice that Stiles is tearing up. It's a little embarrassing, because he really doesn't want Derek to think that he's one of those people who cries at everything. Stiles really isn't. He hasn't cried for years until Derek went and got himself a brain tumour. 

Derek just holds him close, one hand slowly stroking him over the hair and the other rubbing up and down his back. 

* * *

It's a lot harder to teach Derek to photograph than Stiles thought, to begin with. He's moody and doesn't like not being good at things, which is funny because Stiles is used to always being not good at things. They have put together a darkroom in Derek's basement, just like Stiles planned. Derek isn't pleased with the results of his photographing, but he doesn't seem to want to abandon the idea, which is something that Stiles clings to desperately. He doesn't have the energy or even enough ideas to come up with something else now. They don't have that much time left until Derek has to make his decision, and Stiles suddenly suffers from insomnia every time he's not sleeping at Derek's. 

He cries a lot at home, because the tumour has been so easy to ignore up until now, but it's starting to affect Derek for real. He's moody and sometimes he just snaps at Stiles in a way he didn't even do back when they were barista and customer. Stiles knows it's not really Derek's fault, but it's scary and sometimes Derek doesn't seem to know what day it is. Stiles is afraid that he'll wake up one day and Derek won't remember him either. 

Stiles doesn't exactly know when it happens, but they stop having sex and Derek rarely kisses him anymore. Sometimes there is tension between them, especially in the darkroom and Stiles' body itches with the need to touch, but Derek seems oblivious. He's just printing his photographs, and Stiles kind of wonders if Derek's even aware of him being there. 

“You're just supposed to leave it in the fixer for just two minutes, or the pictures could get ruined,” Stiles says carefully, when it's been in that tray for at least five. 

Derek just shrugs. “I don't care.” 

Stiles isn't entirely sure why, but he pushes past Derek to take the photo out of the fixer, but when he reaches for it, Derek slaps his hand away. Stiles blanches and stares at his hand. 

Derek moves away quickly and turns on the light, effectively ruining the whole purpose of a darkroom. 

“What are you doing?” At first, Stiles isn't sure why his voice is wavering and why he's sounding so weak. Maybe it's the defiant look in Derek's eyes that he hasn't seen there before. Maybe Derek didn't just light up the room, but the whole situation. 

“I'm sick of this,” Derek says and Stiles isn't sure if he's referring to the photography or them, but then Derek gestures to the room and it's like a small piece of glass has been removed from his chest. 

“Why?” 

“My photos are useless.” Derek shrugs like he doesn't even care. 

“Well, they are now, because you ruined them,” Stiles tries, hoping to get a snort or maybe even a smile from Derek. He just gets a glare. It's been a long time since Derek glared at him like that. 

“Photography isn't what I want to do.” 

“What is it that you want to do then?” he asks. There's not exactly time left for Derek to start learning something new, but Stiles is willing to give it a try. 

Derek makes a non-committal shrug. “Nothing.” 

“Nothing?” Stiles repeats and isn't sure why a single word makes his throat clog up like this. He starts fiddling desperately with the hem of his shirt and bites his lower lip, trying to think of something. “There's gotta be something. Something we could try – _you_ could try.” 

Derek gives him a look that doesn't seem to contain anything. It's terrifying. 

“Maybe it's better if you just _die_ then!” Stiles shouts before he's able to stop himself. The words echo strangely through the room and seem to hit Derek like a slap in the face. He takes a step forward, but Stiles backs away, accidentally knocking the tray with developer from the counter. It splashes over the floor, but Derek doesn't even seem to notice. 

“I hate it when you do this,” Stiles whispers, afraid that his voice will break if he talks louder. He's suddenly aware of tears running down his face and he wipes his nose on his sleeve. “I hate it when you just lock me out. I hate that you don't even want to try. I hate that you're just giving up.” 

“Stiles.” Derek closes the distance between them so fast that Stiles doesn't have a chance to back away. Maybe he doesn't really want to, because when Derek's arms lock around him, he just collapses against his chest. 

“I don't think it's better if you die,” he whispers after a long time, when Derek has been standing there holding him, when it probably should have been the other way around.  

Derek's lips brush against his cheek and then they're on his. Desperate, harsh. Exactly what he needs. 

“I don't think it's better if you die,” Stiles whispers again against his lips. 

* * *

Things are better after that. Derek keeps working on his photography, but with just a couple of weeks left to the day when Derek has to make his decision, he sort of disappears into himself. Leaving Stiles locked out. He spends hours and hours in the basement and Stiles has stopped asking, stopped going down there, because Derek rarely seems aware of him when he does. He feels abandoned and he's afraid that Derek has already made his decision, that he just doesn't want to tell Stiles. He's also a bit afraid that Derek will forget going to his doctor's appointment all together. His memory is worse than ever, causing Derek to get irritated and embarrassed. 

It aches when Derek gives him that confused look, the one Stiles hates the most. The one where Derek looks so young and insecure, like he barely knows who he himself is anymore. Stiles isn't sure if the lack of ability to remember things is caused by the tumour itself, or by Derek's constant working and not enough sleep. 

Stiles is scared all the time. Everyone around him is scared, too. Maybe his dad more than anyone. It's like he knows that Stiles went into this thinking that he could change the situation and didn't even think about how it would turn out if he couldn't. He never brings the subject up, but Stiles can feel his concerned looks. 

Scott comes by a lot to play video games and he doesn't talk at all about Allison. It's nice. It takes Stiles mind off of things for a few hours. It's a relief not to think and just press buttons obsessively, taking out all his frustration and uncertainty on Scott's character in the game. It's much easier than shouting at Derek. It's much easier than asking what Derek is thinking. Than asking what he's going to choose. Stiles doesn't dare asking, because he's afraid of the answer he'll get. 

He works fewer hours at the coffee shop as well. Mr. Berry thinks he should spend more time with Derek for as long as they have. Stiles isn't sure if he should be grateful or angry over that statement. It's usually nice to work because he doesn't have much time to think about things when he's taking orders and preparing coffee. But it's hell when the streams of costumers die out and he's there alone with nothing to do but wipe tables and stack coffee mugs. That's usually when his mind starts reeling, starts playing out all the scenarios Stiles doesn't want to think about. Then, and when he's going to bed. He rarely gets more than a few hours of sleep anymore. 

When D-day arrives, he hasn't heard from Derek for twenty-six hours. He has called, sent texts and then called some more. The last couple of tries sent him directly to voice-mail, telling him that Derek's phone is turned off. His dad tells him not to worry. Twenty-six hours aren't that much and Derek has probably just needed some time on his own. Stiles has spent twenty-four hours being hysterical and the other two sleeping. 

After twenty-seven hours, his dad drives him over to Derek's, saying that he doesn't think Stiles is capable of being behind the wheel right now, and Stiles doesn't protest. He also suspects that his dad might have noticed Stiles searching Google for statistics of people committing suicide when suffering a terminal illness and doesn't want Stiles to make a finding like that on his own. 

Stiles' hand is shaking even more violently than Derek's has lately when he presses the doorbell and it echoes through the house like it usually does. It's strangely comforting that some things at least stay the same. Stiles starts fishing in his pocket for Derek's key, heart pounding at a suffocating speed in his chest, when the door opens. He almost collapses on the doorstep at the sight of Derek. He looks tired and worn, older than he usually does, and Stiles wants to yell at him for not calling back, and hug him close for still being alive. 

“I've tried calling you,” Stiles says after a long silence of them looking at each other. 

“I lost sense of time,” Derek answers quietly and he looks ashamed. Stiles realises that he's forgotten where he has put his phone and then the battery must have died, since he only reached voice-mail the last three thousand times he called.

“Do you know what day it is?” he asks and Derek looks hurt for getting the question, but Stiles doesn't trust his memory anymore. This day is too important to be nice about. 

“Yeah.” Derek nods and scratches the stubble on his chin. “I just came home from the hospital.” 

Stiles' heart starts racing again. He's a little relieved that Derek remembered, but this is it. He both wants to ask and to not, at the same time. It sort of slips out anyway: “And?”

“Surgery in three weeks.” 

This time Stiles actually does collapse on the doorstep. His legs just give in from beneath him and he's sure that he's dreaming, because it doesn't even hurt when his knees hit the ground. 

“Stiles.” Derek's hands grab a hold of him before he topples over completely and then he hears his dad rushing out of the Police car, calling his name like Stiles is the one dying here. Except that Derek is getting surgery. 

“Oh my god,” he breathes and it isn't hard to hear the tears in his voice. 

“What happened?” his dad asks, voice sharp, like Derek would have struck Stiles to the ground. 

“I don't know. I just told him I'm getting the surgery.” Derek's voice is worried and vulnerable, like he's confused. Scared maybe. 

Stiles hears his dad letting out a sigh of relief and when he looks up, Derek's hands still firm  around his arms, he sees his dad squeezing Derek's shoulder. That's pretty much the only declaration of love and acceptance Stiles' dad will ever give Derek, but it's more than Stiles can take right now. 

Derek pulls him up and holds him close, leading him into the house and sitting him down on the couch. It feels like it's been forever since Stiles was here. His dad kisses him on the top of his head and then leaves them alone, promising to come get Stiles whenever he wants to; all he has to do is call. 

“Are you okay?” Derek asks slowly, and crouches in front of him, like Stiles isn't supposed to be the one asking that question. 

“No,” he admits and wipes his nose on his sleeve. “I thought you were dead.” 

Derek frowns like he does when he's ashamed. “I'm sorry, I...” he trails off with a shrug. 

“- forgot where you put your phone,” Stiles fills in softly and presses Derek's head to his chest, ignoring the sound of protest. “I'll help you find it. You should've told me.” 

“I've been working. On a new thing.” Derek's voice is muffled against his chest and Stiles creates a little space between them to be able to make eye contact. 

“Yeah?” He strokes Derek's chin, loves the burn of the stubble against his palm, and watches him close his eyes. Derek's eyelashes are wet against his cheeks. Stiles swallows, wonders when his heart gave itself away. It must have been long ago.

“Yeah. I'll show you when I'm done.” 

“And when's that?” 

Derek opens his eyes and gives him a small smile. “In six months maybe.” 

Stiles feels stupid for tearing up again, grinning like an idiot, over the fact that Derek is planning more than three weeks ahead, like he's actually believing in making this. Like he wants to. And he wants Stiles to be there in six months, to show him. 

“I love you,” Stiles whispers, pressing his face into Derek's hair and closes his eyes. It's been true for a long time now. Almost since the first day he met Derek in the coffee shop. It's just that maybe Stiles' view of love has changed over these months, but he's sure he has loved Derek through all of them. 

He isn't sure, but he thinks Derek sobs when he buries his face in Stiles' hoodie. They just sit like that for a while. Stiles on the couch and Derek on his knees on the floor. Derek doesn't say it back, but Stiles knows he does too. Maybe it wasn't that immediate thing like it was for Stiles, but it doesn't really matter now. 

* * *

The surgery is supposed to take six hours. Stiles is allowed to walk beside Derek to the anaesthetization and he holds Derek's hand for as long as he is allowed, before a kind nurse tells him that he has to let go. Derek is the one refusing to loosen his grip, in the end. His hair is shaved off and he looks strangely small to Stiles' eyes now. 

Derek has never looked small. 

After an hour of waiting, Stiles is ready to climb the walls. He's convinced that the clock is broken and asks the woman in the reception for the time constantly. She must know why he's here, because she never gets irritated with him.  

When two hours have passed, he walks out to get some air but rushes back in an instant, afraid that someone will come out looking for him to tell him that Derek didn't make it. 

After three hours Stiles, is so exhausted by his worrying that he falls asleep, stretched out on the waiting room sofa, dressed in one of Derek's t-shirts under his own hoodie. Derek has promised him that he's allowed to keep all the clothes he wants if he doesn't make it. Stiles doesn't want to think about it. He has a row of nightmares and wakes up with a lump in his throat, when someone nudges him by the shoulder. 

It's the kind nurse. She looks tired. He sits up so fast that the world starts spinning and when his sight returns, the clock on the wall tells him that it's two hours later than what it's supposed to be. Something must have gone wrong. 

He stares at her and she smiles at him, like she wants him to think that she's understanding. 

“We came across some complications,” she says and squeezes his shoulder. “But overall the surgery went well and the surgeon doesn't think Mr. Hale will suffer any long term complications.” 

Stiles still stares at her and then he begins talking too loudly. “Oh my god. You can't just say that! Why didn't you tell me he was fine to begin with? What's wrong with you? I want to see him.” 

She smiles her kind smile again. “I'll take you to him when he's woken up. The brain is always complicated and we can't say for sure that the surgery won't have affected Mr. Hale in any way. It's important that you know this.” 

Stiles stops listening. Instead he just sits and stares at the clock, waiting for her to come back. Another few hours later, she returns and motions for him to follow her. He almost runs until he stands in front of a door. Then he stops. Uncertain. She nudges him on then, makes him walk through the door and into the room. 

There are tubes, machines, beeping, and Stiles has no idea what they're all for. Derek is in the hospital bed, his head covered in bandages, and it might have been a funny sight if Stiles wasn't terrified that Derek will be someone else. 

Derek cracks one eye open at him. It seems to be done with a great amount of energy and will, because he closes it almost right away. 

“Hi,” Stiles whispers and drags the spare chair in the corner to sit next to the bed. “It's Stiles.” He isn't sure if the last part is necessary or not, but Derek makes a weird sound that could be a scoff, and Stiles grabs Derek's hand to stop himself from crying. His own still feels small in Derek's heavy one, and it's such a relief when Derek makes a light squeeze and doesn't let go. He doesn't let go. 

“I love you,” Stiles whispers and presses his face against Derek's thigh, because the rest of his body feels too close to his head and Stiles doesn't want to hurt him. “I love you so much. Oh my god, I'll stop talking. I'm sorry, I'm sorry.” 

Derek's hand squeezes tighter for a moment and when Stiles looks up, he opens his mouth as if to say something. He tries a couple of times before any sounds come out. “Keep talking,” he manages finally and Stiles just can't keep it in any longer. He keeps talking for a long, long time. Derek doesn't say a word and if it wasn't for the occasional lift at one corner of his mouth, or a slight squeeze of his hand, Stiles would be sure that he was back to sleeping. A while later, Stiles falls asleep with his head resting on Derek's thigh, his hand still in Derek's. 

 


	4. Epilogue

 

  
_Without you it's shadows through night's black pitch,_  
 _There's a hundred thousand light bulbs but there ain't no switch_  
 _Living in darkness, fear in the night,_  
 _Oh what a feeling when I see that light_  
 _With you, with you_  
 _Our colours come alive when I collide with you  
_ _Kaleidoscope – The Script_

Stiles spends more time in the hospital than he ever thought he would. Years ago, when his mother died, he had promised himself not to spend more time there than necessary. Lately he's been at the hospital almost every day. Derek sleeps a lot and it's terrifying to see him lose so much weight that he's barely any bigger than Stiles. He stays there through all of it. He walks with Derek up and down the hospital corridors, even though Derek at first is out of breath and feels faint from just walking to the cafeteria. 

He learns how to help Derek with his rehabilitation. Mostly, he learns to hold him back, to make him do what he's supposed to properly and not rush through it. Derek still thinks he's the bulky guy he used to be. When Derek gets to leave the hospital and go home with regular appointments at the hospital, Stiles goes with him. It's easier to be around all the time than spend the days he has off from work at Derek's and then go home to sleep. His dad doesn't seem to mind all that much. 

Derek's hair starts growing back enough to cover the scar stretching over his scalp. Sometimes Stiles rakes his fingers through it, only to find the outline of the scar, just to remind himself how lucky they are. 

They do fight a lot. It's difficult not to fight with Derek when he doesn't do his exercises properly. Stiles is especially strict with the ones for Derek's hands, because even though he knows that Derek is working in the basement constantly when Stiles isn't there (and even though he isn't supposed to put too much pressure on himself), they both know that drawing really is what he's supposed to do. What he wants to do. 

Sometimes they even yell at each other and at those times Stiles is always afraid that Derek regrets the surgery. He never says that he does. He never hints that he does. Stiles clings to that desperately when things are difficult. He can take anything as long as Derek doesn't regret his choice to go through with this. 

In the middle of everything that feels unreal, reality checks in with the acceptance letter from college. Stiles feels like crying from relief when he sees it. His dad takes them out on a combined birthday and _just got in to college_ -dinner. He mostly watches his dad an Derek talk, and then his dad orders vegetarian food without having to be threatened. It's like things are working in the right direction. Finally. 

Derek gains weight in time with things starting to return to semi-normal. It's like for every pound of muscle he puts on, Stiles can breathe a little easier. He starts working more hours and Derek spends more and more time in the basement. Stiles still doesn't know what his project is about, but it's easier to leave Derek's house when he knows that Derek will be busy. 

He's having a break at work, surfing on his phone in the back room, when his Facebook-apps tells him that he's got a new friend request. He almost chokes, grinning madly, when he sees that it's from a _Derek Hale_ , and it's not the dude with the Santa beard. 

“So Facebook, huh?” he asks as soon as he steps inside the door that evening, finding Derek sitting at the kitchen table, in a t-shirt that looks way too tight, reading a book with a dirty plate in front of him. 

Derek looks up briefly and Stiles sees a badly concealed smirk tug at his lips. “Yeah. Someone told me it was perfect for stalking.” 

“It worked for me, didn't it?” Stiles gestures to all of Derek, nodding suggestively, pointing out that stalking got him _all of that_. 

Derek snorts and rolls his eyes, but he's still smirking behind the book. It takes Stiles another moment to realise why Derek's t-shirt looks so tight on him. It's because it's Stiles' shirt. The realisation of that really shouldn't be this hot, but his hands starts feeling a bit sweaty all the same. They haven't had sex since Derek came out of the hospital. Stiles hasn't wanted to pressure Derek into anything, not really knowing if he's feeling worse than he lets on, and Derek hasn't initiated anything. Stiles just never figured that it would be his own t-shirt to set him off like this. 

“That's my shirt,” he breathes and it's ridiculous how his voice betrays him. 

Derek looks up, the smirk gone from his face and there's a look in his eyes that hasn't been there in a long time. It makes Stiles shudder internally. 

“Yeah,” he replies and nods. 

Stiles stares as Derek closes the book and puts it down on the table before getting up from the chair. He feels a little bit like he's supposed to either make a run for it, or tear his clothes off. Derek crowds him against the doorpost, hands resting on Stiles' hips, his thumbs gently grazing the outline of Stiles' hipbones through his clothes. 

Yeah, it definitely shouldn't be this easy for Derek to turn him on. 

Derek kisses him then, slowly, like he wants to drag it out as much as possible. Stiles really doesn't want to savour anything right now, so he pushes back, rocks his hips into Derek's and lets out a sigh of relief from the slight friction. 

“I've missed this,” he sighs when Derek's lips find their way down his throat, licking, biting. Stiles doesn't remember it ever feeling this good before. He's shaking slightly, fingers curling into Derek's – _his –_ shirt, trying to pull him closer. 

“Mm,” Derek whispers against his skin, his hands stroking the skin on Stiles' sides, making all the muscles in his belly contract. “Me too.” 

Stiles bucks his hips when Derek's thumbs graze his nipples and he lets his head fall back against the doorpost with a low thump. Fuck, it feels even better when Derek starts grinding against him slowly and it takes all of his concentration not to repeat his accident from that first time right then and there. 

He groans when Derek's lips find his again and opens his mouth willingly, one hand digging into Derek's hair at the back of his head, pulling him closer. He's already panting heavily, when Derek licks into his mouth in a sloppy way that makes Stiles body turn boneless and weak. He pulls Derek to him by slinging a leg around his waist, angling his hips for better friction and shudders from the pleased sound Derek makes in his throat. 

“Bed,” Stiles manages, when Derek's fingers flip the button of his jeans open. His mind is reeling, head spinning. He wants to do this now. He wants Derek as close as possible. Inside. 

“No,” Derek disagrees, his hand palming Stiles slowly through his boxers and _holy hell_ that feels a lot better than he remembers. 

“I –” Stiles begins, trying to find the words, _any_ words. “I want _you –_ ” he gasps when Derek lazily curls his hand around Stiles' cock through the thin fabric of his underwear. “- want you to fuck me.” 

Derek stills, if only for a fraction of a second, but Stiles still notices it. He doesn't ask if Stiles is sure. He already knows that Stiles wouldn't ask him to if he wasn't sure. Derek trusts him. A second later Derek kisses him roughly and makes a sound that makes Stiles' cock twitch. 

“Yeah, bed,” Derek says breathlessly and pulls Stiles away from the doorpost, backing him down the hallway to the bedroom and pushes him down on the mattress. 

Stiles helps undress himself. Derek has seen him naked so many times now that he doesn't even feel the slightest bit uneasy about it. Instead, he concentrates on every inch of Derek's body that gets revealed as he gets rid of his own clothes. The hard ripple of muscle of his chest and stomach, the faint trail of hair leading down into the waistband of his underwear, until he removes them too. Stiles reaches out slowly strokes down the length of Derek's cock when he steps out of his underwear and watches pleasure flicker over Derek's face. 

And then Derek is on him, their naked bodies slowly grinding together and Stiles isn't sure that he remembers how to breathe properly. He angles his hips, pushes back desperately when Derek rocks against him, their cocks sliding together, pre-come making it slippery and wet. Stiles drops his head back against the mattress, suddenly feeling too weak to be able to hold it up. Derek breathes heavily, holding himself up on his forearms, face hovering just above Stiles'. 

He slides his hands over the soft, sweaty skin on Derek's back, trying to keep himself from groaning out loud with every slide of Derek's cock against his own. It's like a slow burning ache in the pit of his belly, his vision is going so fuzzy that he closes his eyes and concentrates on how Derek's muscles work beneath his hands. 

“Come on,” he moans, grasping the sweat-curled hair at the nape of Derek's neck. His muscles are shaking and he isn't even sure if it's from anticipation or if he's already exhausted. 

Derek doesn't need to be told twice and Stiles watches his body greedily when Derek leans over to grab the lube from the bedside table. He strokes down the planes of Derek's stomach, loves the feeling of hard muscles quivering just beneath the skin. Derek fiddles with the tube, drops it back on the table twice before he finally has it in a firm hold, like he can't concentrate properly when Stiles is touching him. Stiles loves that he can make Derek like this. The hungry look on Derek's face when he sits back on the bed, between Stiles' thighs, forces him to breathe in deeply and fist his hands in the sheets. 

He half-expects to feel a little embarrassed when he watches Derek's eyes roam over his body, taking it all in. But when he sees Derek swallow and close his eyes for a brief second, like he's trying to regain some form of control, Stiles just spreads his legs wider, pulling them up. Giving Derek access to everything. 

The throaty sound Derek makes effectively wipes away the insecurity that flitters through his belly and he tilts his hips, not entirely able to hide a pleased grin when Derek draws a loud, shuddering breath. 

Then there are slick fingers gently grazing the rim of his ass, stroking slowly and Stiles whole body goes limp, eyes falling close. They've done this before and his body is so familiar with the light pressure of Derek's fingertip just before he presses in. Stiles sighs heavily, legs shaking slightly as he tries to push back. Derek treats him like he's going to break, working slowly, gently. Forcing Stiles to whine before he gets another finger. 

He starts pushing back, feeling like his body is melting under Derek's free hand roaming all over his skin, his brain completely focusing on the fingers inside. Derek is concentrating, eyes only flickering between Stiles' face and where his fingers slip in and out of Stiles' body. Stiles doesn't dare to reach down and touch his cock and his back curves dangerously when Derek brushes a thumb up the underside of it, tracing the vein there. For a moment, Stiles is sure that he's going to black out, that his body has had a short-circuit, but when Derek scissors his fingers, spreading him open further all he can do is strangle the sheets in his hands and hold on, to not come. 

 “Derek,” he gasps, his voice thick and unsteady. “Come on. Now.” 

This is the part Stiles knows nothing about. The part he's both scared of and hungry for. He watches Derek put on a condom before stroking a generous amount of lube over his cock and Stiles would've reached down to help, but his arms feel too heavy to move. He breathes in deeply, concentrating on how his ribcage expands and contracts to keep himself from freaking out when he feels the blunt pressure of Derek's cock as he lines himself up, shuffling closer on his knees, between Stiles' legs. 

Derek's hair is messy and Stiles doesn't want to know what his own looks like. Derek's skin is shining with sweat and he's breathing heavily, eyes strained to where he slowly pushes into Stiles. 

“Oh god,” Stiles manages, voice strangled. He expected more pain, but there's only dull discomfort and the weird sensation of his body being stretched, opened. He forgets to breathe as he stares at Derek's face, the pleasure etched across his features and his eyes fluttering close. When Derek stops it takes Stiles a moment to realise that he's all the way in, along with the realisation comes the feeling of being too full. 

“Oh my god,” he breathes, gasping for breath as Derek slowly leans over him, shifting his weight to his arms, biceps flexing. Stiles grasps them, holds on as he tries tilting his hips, pushing back over Derek's cock as he likes doing over Derek's fingers. “Fuck,” he groans, not expecting the way he's suddenly quivering, his whole body swirling to change focus, his brain fighting to put words on that feeling, and failing. 

“Move,” he whispers and isn't able to keep in the loud sound that slips out of him when Derek does. It's slow and deep, and hot pleasure is suddenly shooting down every single one of his limbs. Derek groans loudly and he watches Stiles face like he's unable to look away, like it's everything he wants to see right now. 

Derek has one hand on Stiles' hip, holding him firm and close, making it impossible for Stiles body to do anything but stay where it is and take Derek's every thrust. And then Derek picks up the pace and Stiles finds himself nodding frantically, hips jerking. 

“Yes, yes, that's it,” he breathes and isn't even sure if it's Derek he's talking to, or just the universe in general. When he plants his feet on the mattress for leverage and starts pushing back, ignoring his straining muscles and how close he suddenly feels to coming. 

Derek just loses it. His free hand comes down, grabbing Stiles' ass and pulls him closer, as he leans more heavily on his arm, hips suddenly snapping forcefully. Stiles just reaches down, and squeezes once down his cock, before he's coming, his whole body going painfully rigid, clamping down on Derek who moans loudly against Stiles' throat. It takes another few thrusts before Derek is coming too, his hips snapping erratically and out of pace. Stiles stares at Derek's face, the way his eyes are screwed shut and the way his mouth is slacked open. He's completely silent, except for a few unsteady breaths as his body shudders, muscles contracting. 

When Derek opens his eyes to look at Stiles again, his face is soft and there's a small smile on his lips that Stiles is sure he isn't aware of. He winces a little when Derek pulls out and isn't sure if it's because of the loss or because it doesn't feel nearly as hot when he isn't turned on. He watches lazily, rolling over to his side, when Derek ties off the condom and tosses it into the trash. Stiles doesn't have enough energy to reach for the wet wipes on the bedside table, so he wipes himself clean with the sheets. 

Derek just rolls his eyes at him, before slipping under the covers, lifting them to get Stiles under there with him. Stiles moves close, pressing his overly warm body against Derek's equally overly warm one. He doesn't care. 

“That was awesome,” he says finally and by the raspy sound of his voice, he must have been much louder than he remembers. 

He can feel Derek smile as he presses his face into Stiles' hair. “I love you.” 

It's just quiet words and Derek's lips brushing against his skin. Stiles can't stop himself from grinning madly, because this is the first time Derek has ever told him that. 

“I know,” he replies and strokes down Derek's side, thumb grazing his hipbone gently. 

“I know you do,” Derek says and Stiles doesn't think that his ears are fooling him when it sounds like Derek's voice is just a bit thicker than usual. 

* * *

A month later, Stiles is allowed to see the result of Derek's new project. It's a collection of very unexpected, quite strange-looking photos in black and white. There are patches on them that look like light shadows and Stiles wonders how Derek managed to create those. 

“It's the camera, the one that leaks light,” Derek tells him when he asks. 

Stiles wants to ask him if he still thinks that the camera is useless, but he's way too captivated by the photos to push his luck. Derek is a much better photographer than he should be after being taught by Stiles. Maybe he's taken an online class in secret.

“I like this one,” he says, holding up one of the lonely easel in Derek's drawing room. He isn't sure if he likes it because it's a good photo, or because there's a canvas on the easel in the photograph. A canvas with a half-finished drawing. 

* * *

Derek helps him pack for college. There are a lot more boxes than Stiles counted on and he's happy that Derek and his dad are going to drive there with him. It's not far away at all and Stiles is relieved because he isn't sure he would be capable of moving to the other side of the country after a year like this. Derek has promised him to come visit a lot and Stiles knows that he will. 

“Are you going to bring this?” Derek asks and points towards the painting Stiles got from him as a Christmas gift. It feels so long ago now.

“Are you kidding? I'm going to put that in your bedroom, so you have something to look at when you miss me.” He grins, already knowing exactly where he's going to put it, just to make sure that Derek can see it when he's in bed at night. Stiles isn't going let Derek forget about him. 

Stiles is going to bring a photo of them though. It's a ridiculous, very cheesy photo that Matt took of them a couple of weeks ago. Derek doesn't even know Stiles has it, because if he did, he would burn all evidence of it ever existing. It's from the beach and Derek looks ridiculously hot with all his muscles and Stiles looks like an idiot with the biggest smile humanity as ever seen. And Derek is looking at him with that smile Stiles really likes but doesn't get to see very often. Matt caught it though, and Stiles is going to use the photo as blackmail whenever Derek claims that he isn't stupidly in love with Stiles. The picture is proof. 

“What's this?” Derek asks, holding up the personal statement Stiles sent in with his college application. He's had one lying on his desk forever, buried under comics and DVD's, and then completely forgotten about it until now. 

“It's the personal statement for my college application.” 

Derek skims the page and Stiles sees the change in his face through the paragraphs. Derek swallows a few times before he puts it down back on the desk again. Stiles smiles at him, not really feeling like bringing back that time. Everything is much better now. For one, Derek doesn't have a brain tumour, which makes both of their lives like a gazillion times better. 

“You know, the whole you-almost-dying thing really lead to something good in the end. It got me into college.” 

Derek looks like he isn't sure if he should glare or laugh. In the end, he does the latter. 

* * *

FIN 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I'm thinking about making this into a series (because I'm not sure if I'm ready to say goodbye to these guys yet), but I'm not entirely sure yet. Once again, feel free to contact me on tumblr if you like: [ljummen](http://ljummen.tumblr.com)
> 
> The camera leaking light-idea was stolen from I Am Number Four and some of the dialogue was lifted from the TV-show (you probably recognised those parts). Also, about the brain tumour: I'm not a doctor. I've made as much research as I can (spoken to some doctors and people that have suffered from this, checked information sites about it, etcetera), but there can still be inaccuracies, please feel free to point them out so I can change them – I don't want to accidentally offend anyone.  
> I'm also not an art student, or an artist, so I apologise for any inaccuracies within that area, too. I've made some research on the subject and on how to build a darkroom, but I'm not a pro! 
> 
> Edit: I got some feedback in the comments! You people are awesome. As I said, I'm not an art student so there surely was going to be a few mistakes when it comes to the art area, and there were! For example, this awesome person explained to me that Derek would not have used the word "naked" when he says that Stiles will be naked for his drawing, but "nude". I'm going to change this as soon as I get the chance to sit down for a few moments (probably when I'm done with my exam). I quote: "[---] naked in the art world implies being uncomfortable with the state of undress. which, I guess stiles is, but at the same time, he knew what he was getting into and knew that the drawing of him would be on display for a lot of people to see. nude is the word you're looking for, because nude implies that you're comfortable with the fact that you will be without clothing and people will see you like that--if only in a drawing [---]"  
> THANK YOU for pointing this out!


	5. Derek's portrait of Stiles, plus Derek's POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys!  
> Kaleidoscope was supposed to be finished with that epilogue, and well, it is. If you don't count the one shots in the same 'verse, that I'm most likely going to write. 
> 
> However, a little while back [maichan808](http://maichan808.tumblr.com) asked me if she had my permission to draw fanart for this fic, and of course I said yes! She drew an amazing piece, that moved me to tears. It's Derek's portrait of Stiles, his "best piece" as he calls it. 
> 
> When I explained to her what Derek's motivation for the piece was, she convinced me to write an additional scene from Derek's point of view. I have her permission to share her piece alogn with the drabble I wrote with you.

(Please like and reblog her post on tumblr, and do not repost the art. [Here's the link the the original post](http://maichan808.tumblr.com/post/46767455605/artwork-and-photography-inspired-by-kaleidoscope). She deserves all the notes in the world!)

 

 

**Derek**

  
Derek wipes his hands on his pants, leaving dark stains from his charcoal-stained fingers. It’s been a while since he felt like a piece was this _finished_. It’s been slow progress from the night in the art institute when Stiles decided to show up quite unexpectedly to let Derek finish the piece for the exhibition. His last one.  
  
Back then, it was nothing but the outline of Stiles’ eyes and nose.  
  
Now, it’s a combination of all of Derek’s favorite Stiles’ expressions. There’s that look in his eyes that makes Derek’s heart forget how to beat properly. There’s the huge grin he rarely lets Derek see, because Stiles is constantly self-conscious around him. There’s the way he sometimes looks at Derek when he has said something funny, and wants to take in Derek’s reaction. Derek slowly traces the outline of Stiles’ temple with his fingertip, careful not to leave any evidence from his smudgy fingers.  
  
He drew Stiles like this and not like the broken human being Derek left behind in the coffee shop yesterday, because this is the Stiles who barrelled his way into Derek’s life and stayed.  
  
It started as a way to let himself have Stiles even though he knew that wasn’t an option. It was also, perhaps subconsciously at first, a way to make sure he remembers. Derek knows what can happen to your ability to remember; he’s done his reading. He knows there will likely be a day soon when he can’t remember the look in Stiles’ eyes so vividly, perhaps not even at all. A day when he can’t recall the lines that appear around Stiles’ nose when he grins.  
  
This was supposed to make sure that he remembers, that he never forgets the way Stiles made dying seem like losing to Derek, and not like just another way to move on. The way he made sure that he once again remembers what it’s like to have your heart pound from the sound of someone else’s voice.  
  
This was supposed to be Derek’s way to make sure that he never forgets Stiles, and the way he somehow managed to make Derek feel whole and broken all at once.  
  
And now, Derek is going to give that portrait away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all liked that bit of insight in Derek's thoughts. I'm not sure I'll write more of those, but only time will tell!
> 
> This is my tumblr, feel free to contact me about whatever and whenever! --> [Ljummen](http://ljummen.tumblr.com)


End file.
